"I don't know that I am quite sure what you mean," the girl replied, embarrassed by the personal nature of his questions and comments; "but if you mean to imply that I affect this or that expression, for a purpose, you misjudge me." "I was just askin'," said Smith. "I think I am always honest of purpose," the girl went on slowly, "and when one is that, I think it shows in one's eyes. To be sure, I often fall short of my intentions. I mean to do right, and almost as frequently do wrong." "You do?" He eyed her with quick intentness. "Yes, don't you? Don't all of us?" "I does what I aims to do," he replied ambiguously. So she--this girl with eyes like two deep springs--did wrong--frequently. He pondered the admission for a long time. Smith's exact ideas of right and wrong would have been difficult to define; the dividing line, if there were any, was so vague that it had never served as the slightest restraint. "To do what you aim to do, and make a clean get-away"--that was the successful life. He had seen things, it is true; there had been incidents and situations which had repelled him, but why, he had never asked himself. There was one situation in particular to which his mind frequently reverted, as it did now. He had known worse women than the one who had figured in it, but for some reason this single scene was impressed upon his mind with a vividness which seemed never to grow less. He saw a woman seated at an old-fashioned organ in a country parlor. There was a rag-carpet on the floor--he remembered how springy it was with the freshly laid straw underneath it. Her husband held a lamp that she might see the notes, while his other hand was upon her shoulder, his adoring eyes upon her silly face. He, Smith, was rocking in the blue plush chair for which the fool with the calloused hands had done extra work that he might give it to the woman upon her birthday. Each time that she screeched the refrain, "Love, I will love you always," she lifted her chin to sing it to the man beaming down upon her, while upstairs her trunk was packed to desert him. Smith always remembered with satisfaction that he had left her in Red Lodge with only the price of a telegram to her husband, in her shabby purse. "I like your style, girl." His eyes swept Dora Marshall's figure as he spoke. There was a difference in his tone, a familiarity in his glance, which sent the color flying to the Schoolmarm's cheeks. "I think we could hit it off--you and me--if we got sociable." He leaned toward her and laid his gloved hand upon hers as it rested on the saddle-horn. The pupils of her eyes dilated until they all but covered the iris as she turned them, blazing, upon Smith. "Just what do you mean by that?"