“You will find my bachelor way of living very primitive,” he said, with his engaging smile. He arranged the robes over two of the chairs and pushed them close up to the stove. “I haven’t an easy chair in the house—prove it by Paul, here. Haven’t time to rock, and can’t afford to run the risk of cultivating slothful habits. Take these, do,” he urged, “and remove your coats.” “Thank you—you are very kind,” said Louise. “No, I won’t take off my jacket,” a spot of color staining her cheek when she thought of her gay kimono. Involuntarily, she felt of her throat to make sure the muffler had not blown awry. “We shall be going soon, shan’t we, Mr. Langford? If Mr. Gordon is in any danger, you must stay with him and let us go alone. It is not far.” “Surely,” said Mary, with a big sinking of the heart, but meaning what she said. “Not at all,” said Gordon, decidedly. “It’s just his womanish way of bossing me. I’ll rebel some day. Just wait! But before you go, I’ll make tea. You must have gotten chilled through.” He would keep them here a while and then let them go—with Langford. The thought made him feel cheap and cowardly and sneaking. Far rather would he step out boldly and take his chances. But if there was to be any shooting, it must be where Louise,—and Mary, too—was not. He believed Paul, in his zeal, had exaggerated evil omens, but there was Louise in his bachelor rooms—where he had never thought to see her; there with her cheeks flushed with the proximity to the stove—his stove—her fair hair windblown. No breath of evil thing must assail her that night—that night, when she had glorified his lonely habitation—even though he himself must slink into a corner like a cowardly cur. A strange elation took possession of him. She was here. He thought of last night and seemed to walk on air. If he won out, maybe—but, fool that he was! what was there in this rough land for a girl like—Louise? “Oh, no, that will be too much trouble,” gasped Louise, in some alarm and thinking of Aunt Helen. “Thanks, old man, we’ll stay,” spoke up Langford, cheerfully. “He makes excellent tea—really. I’ve tried it before. You will never regret staying.” Silently he watched his friend in the inner room bring out a battered tea-kettle, fill it with a steady hand and put it on the stove in the office, coming and going carelessly, seemingly conscious of nothing in the world but the comfort of his unexpected guests.