Kent tapped his hat gently against his leg and faced her unflinchingly, quite unconscious of the fact that she regarded him as a dissolute, drunken cowboy with whom Manley ought not to associate. “That's too bad.” His eyes failed to drop guiltily before hers, but continued to regard her calmly. “I'm only going to stay a minute. I came to tell you that there's a scheme to raise--to 'shivaree' you two, tonight. I thought you might want to pull out, along about dark.” Manley looked up at him inquiringly with the eye which was not covered by the lace-edged handkerchief. Valeria seemed startled, just at first. Then she gave Kent a little shock of surprise. “I have read about such things. A _charivari_, even out here in this uncivilized section of the country, can hardly be dangerous. I really do not think we care to run away, thank you.” Her lip curled unmistakably. “Mr. Fleetwood is suffering from a sick headache. He needs rest--not a cowardly night ride.” Naturally Kent admired the spirit she showed, in spite of that eloquent lip, the scorn of which seemed aimed directly at him. But he still faced her steadily. “Sure. But if I had a headache--like that--I'd certainly burn the earth getting outa town to-night. _Shivarees_”--he stuck stubbornly to his own way of saying it--“are bad for the head. They aren't what you could call silent--not out here in this uncivilized section of the country. They're plumb--” He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, and his resentment of her tone melted into a twinkle of the eyes. “They've got fifty coal-oil cans strung with irons on a rope, and there'll be about ninety-five six-shooters popping, and eight or ten horse-fiddles, and they'll all be yelling to beat four of a kind. They're going,” he said quite gravely, “to play the full orchestra. And I don't believe,” he added ironically, “it's going to help Mr. Fleetwood's head any.” Valeria looked at him doubtingly with steady, amber-colored eyes before she turned solicitously to readjust the lace-edged handkerchief. Kent seized the opportunity to stare fixedly at Fleetwood and jerk his head meaningly backward, but when, warned by Manley's changing expression, she glanced suspiciously over her shoulder, Kent was standing quietly by the door with his hat in his hand, gazing absently at Walt in his gilt-edged frame upon the gilt easel, and waiting, evidently, for their decision. “I shall tell them that Mr. Fleetwood is sick--that he has a horrible headache, and mustn't be disturbed.” Kent forgot himself so far as to cough slightly behind his hand. Valeria's eyes sparkled. “Even out here,” she went on cuttingly, “there must be some men who are gentlemen!” Kent refrained from looking at her, but the blood crept darkly into his tanned cheeks. Evidently she “had it in for him,” but he could not see why. He wondered swiftly if she blamed him for Manley's condition.