For long minutes she did not speak, because she could not. Like many women, she fought desperately against the tears which seemed a badge of her femininity. She sat down in a chair, dropped her face upon her folded arms, and bit her lips until they were sore. Kent took a step toward her, reconsidered, and went over to the window, where he stood staring moodily out until she began speaking. Even then, he did not turn immediately toward her. “You needn't go, Kent,” she said with some semblance of calm. “Because I'm going. I didn't tell you--but I'm going home. I'm going to get free, by the same law that tied me to him. You are right--I have a 'down-east' conscience. I think I was born with it. It demands that I get my freedom honestly; I can't steal it--pal. I couldn't be happy if I did that, no matter how hard I might try--or you.” He turned eagerly toward her then, but she stopped him with a gesture. “No--stay where you are. I want to solve my problem and--and leave you out of it; you're a complication, pal--when you talk like--like you've just been talking. It makes my conscience wonder whether I'm honest with myself. I've got to leave you out, don't you see? And so, leaving you out, I don't feel that any woman should be expected to go on like I'm doing. You don't know--I couldn't tell you just how--impossible--this marriage of mine has become. The day after--well, yesterday--no, the day before yesterday--he came home and found out--what I'd done. He--I couldn't stay here, after that, so--” “What did he do?” Kent demanded sharply. “He didn't dare to lay his hands on you--did he? By--” “Don't swear, Kent--I hear so much of that from him!” Val smiled curiously. “He--he swore at me. I couldn't stay with him, after that--could I, dear?” Whether she really meant to speak that last word or not, it set Kent's blood dancing so that he forgot to urge his question farther. He took two eager steps toward her, and she retreated again behind the table. “Kent, don't! How can I tell you anything, if you won't be good?” She waited until he was standing rather sulkily by the window again. “Anyway, it doesn't matter now what he has done. I am going to leave him. I'm going to get a divorce. Not even the strictest 'down-east' conscience could demand that I stay. I'm perfectly at ease upon that point. About this last trouble--with the calves--if I could help him, I would, of course. But all I could say would only make matters worse--and I'm a wretched failure at lying. I can help him more, I think, by going away. I feel certain there's going to be trouble over those calves. Fred De Garmo never would have come down here and driven them all away, would he, unless there was going to be trouble?”