And he laid his large, yet well-shapen workman’s hand on the top of the stove, that was polished black and smooth as velvet. She would not look at him, yet she glanced out of the corners of her eyes. His eyes were fixed brightly on her, the pupils large and electric like those of a cat. “I should have picked you out among thousands,” he said. “Though you’re bigger than I’d have believed. Fine flesh you’ve made.” She was silent for some time. Then she turned in her chair upon him. “What do you think of yourself,” she said, “coming back on me like this after over fifteen years? You don’t think I’ve not heard of you, neither, in Butte City and elsewhere?” He was watching her with his clear, translucent, unchallenged eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Chaps comes an’ goes—I’ve heard tell of you from time to time.” She drew herself up. “And what lies have you heard about _me_?” she demanded superbly. “I dunno as I’ve heard any lies at all—’cept as you was getting on very well, like.” His voice ran warily and detached. Her anger stirred again in her violently. But she subdued it, because of the danger there was in him, and more, perhaps, because of the beauty of his head and his level drawn brows, which she could not bear to forfeit. “That’s more than I can say of _you_,” she said. “I’ve heard more harm than good about _you_.” “Ay, I dessay,” he said, looking in the fire. It was a long time since he had seen the furze burning, he said to himself. There was a silence, during which she watched his face. “Do you call yourself a _man_?” she said, more in contemptuous reproach than in anger. “Leave a woman as you’ve left me, you don’t care to what!—and then to turn up in _this_ fashion, without a word to say for yourself.” He stirred in his chair, planted his feet apart, and resting his arms on his knees, looked steadily into the fire, without answering. So near to her was his head, and the close black hair, she could scarcely refrain from starting away, as if it would bite her. “Do you call that the action of a _man_?” she repeated. “No,” he said, reaching and poking the bits of wood into the fire with his fingers. “I didn’t call it anything, as I know of. It’s no good calling things by any names whatsoever, as I know of.” She watched him in his actions. There was a longer and longer pause between each speech, though neither knew it. “I _wonder_ what you think of yourself!” she exclaimed, with vexed emphasis. “I _wonder_ what sort of a fellow you take yourself to be!” She was really perplexed as well as angry. “Well,” he said, lifting his head to look at her, “I guess I’ll answer for my own faults, if everybody else’ll answer for theirs.” Her heart beat fiery hot as he lifted his face to her. She breathed heavily, averting her face, almost losing her self-control. “And what do you take _me_ to be?” she cried, in real helplessness. His face was lifted watching her, watching her soft, averted face, and the softly heaving mass of her breasts.