"You might keep him there, and you might not. I judge you didn't have much control over him in th' East. You didn't seem to have a great deal of influence with him by letter,"--gently, very kindly, yet impressively. "If you got out in camp all alone with him, livin' a life that's new to you, you might not make good there. See what I mean? You'd be all alone, cause the mine's abandoned." She started at that. "There'd be nobody to help you if he got crazy wild like he'll sure get before he comes through. You--" "You don't think I'm up to it? Is that it?" she interrupted. He looked closely at her before he answered. "Ma'am, if a woman like you can't keep a man straight by just lovin' him,"--with a curious flatness in his voice--"you can't do it no way, can you?" She sat silent, and he continued to question her with his gaze. "I judge you've tried that way, from what you've told me. You've been pretty faithful on the job. You ... you _do_ love him yet, don't you?" he asked, and she looked up with a catch of her breath. "I do,"--dropping her eyes quickly. The man paced the length of the room and back again as though this confession had altered the case and presented another factor for his consideration. But, when he stopped before her, he only said: "You can't leave him in town; you can't take him to his mine. There ain't any place away from town I know of where they'd want to be bothered with a sick man," he explained, gravely, evading an expression of the community's attitude toward Lytton. "I might take him to my place. I'm only eight miles out west. I could look after him there, cause there ain't much press of work right now an'--" "But I would go with him, too, of course," she said. "It's awfully kind of you to offer...." In a flash the picture of this woman and that ruin of manhood together in his house came before Bayard and, again, he realized the tragedy in their contrast. He saw himself watching them, hearing their talk, seeing the woman make love to her debauched husband, perhaps, in an effort to strengthen him; he felt his wrath warm at thought of that girl's devotion and loyalty wasting itself so, and a sudden, alarming distrust of his own patience, his ability to remain a disinterested neutral, arose. "Do you think he better know you're here?" he asked, inspired, and turned on her quickly. "Why, why not?"--in surprise. "It would sure stir him up, ma'am. He ain't even wrote to you, you say, so it would be a surprise for him to see you here. He's goin' to need all the nerve he's got left, ma'am, 'specially right at first,"--his mind working swiftly to invent an excuse--"Your husband's goin' to have the hardest fight he's ever had to make when he comes out of this. He's on the ragged edge of goin' _loco_ from booze now; if he had somethin' more to worry him, he might....