Considering the Inger’s obvious advantage, Bunchy by no means understood. His look said so. Neither was the Inger’s father at all comprehending. In his father’s face the genial kindness and the settled sadness had given place to a contagion of rage and passion. The Inger had never seen his father like this. Even in that moment, this look on the kind, careless face filled the son with sick surprise. The old man by the settle, who had stood staring at this strange turn of things, broke into a plaintive whimper. “Kill ’im—kill ’im—kill ’im ...,” he besought, like a disappointed, teasing child. When Bunchy would have spoken, spluttering, he was arrested by a sound at the door. It was Lory and her aunt, whom she had found in talk with women at a neighbor’s; and it was Hiram Folts, whom, returning, they had met at the street door. The Inger greeted them gravely. “You meet my father,” he said, and named them. “And you meet,” he said, “Mr. Bunchy Haight.” Mrs. Folts stared. Not one of all her gifts was a gift for diplomacy. “Why, ain’t that the man—ain’t that the name—” she recalled it, and met the Inger’s nod, and saw the look on Lory’s face, and instantly reacted in her own way. “My gracious,” she said, “_have_ you had your suppers?” Bunchy, replying with labored elegance, fain to be his gallant best to Lory’s aunt, fain to look beseechingly and reproachfully at Lory, and fain to glower heartily at his enemy, became a writhing Bunchy, demeaning himself with ample absurdity. The Inger was merely silent. In a moment, he took his leave and, as he went, he turned to Lory. “If you want me,” he said, “send for me. I’ll be waitin’ there in the room I got.” She made no answer. She had been like some one stricken since first she had seen who was in the room. “You’ll do it?” he persisted, grateful for Hiram Folt’s nervous fire of questions at his new guest. She met his eyes and, for an instant, it seemed to him that she gave him her eyes, as she had done that morning on the desert. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll do it.” The last sound that he heard as he went down the passage with his father was the fretful whining of the madman: “Kill ’im—kill ’im—kill ’im....”