"Then we'll take him; but, remember, I'll let no one come into our home that will trouble you. I'd as soon have a cinder in me eye as a man I don't like sitting beside me fire; and if the old man is a burden to ye, out he goes." He rose, and came painfully to where she sat, and in a voice of humble sorrow, slowly said: "I don't ask ye to love me--now--I'm not worth it; and once I thought I'd like a son to bear my name, but 'tis better not. I'll never lay that burden upon ye. All I ask is the touch of yer hand now and then, and your presence when I come to die--I'm scared to die alone. 'Twill be a dark, long journey for old Mart, and he wants your face to remember when he sets forth." CHAPTER XXII THE SERPENT'S COIL Lofty as Jerome Humiston talked, and poetic as his face seemed to Bertha Haney, he was at heart infinitely more destructive than any man she had ever known; for he took a satanic delight in proving that all women were alike in their frailty. He had reached also that period of decay wherein the libertine demands novelty--where struggle is essential, and to conquer easily is to fail of the joy of victory. He, too, had rushed to the conclusion that this girl had married an old and broken gambler for his money, and that she was of those to be easily won. Her air of demure reserve piqued him--pleased him. "She is no silly kitten," he mentally remarked, after their second meeting. "She's in for a big career. With beauty and youth and barrels of money she will go far, and I will be her guide--unless I have lost my cunning. She will share her fortune with me some day, and I will teach her to live." He met her at the door of his studio next day with a grave and tender smile. "I'm glad you've come," he said, "but I'll have to confess that I have very little to show you here. My pictures are all down at the gallery, and some of them not yet hung. Next week they will all be in place. But sit down while I boil some tea. My friends who own this work-shop are out; they'll be in soon." "I don't believe I can stay to-day. The Captain is below." "Please do sit down for a moment. I'll be hurt if you don't." The studio was a big bare barn of a place with a few broad canvases upon the walls--not a bit like Humiston; and he explained that his stay in America being short, he could not afford to have a studio of his own. "I'm glad you came. You must let me take you to see my 'show' next week. Your fresh, young, Western eyes are just what I need." This was false, for he was impatient of all criticism. "I need comfort," he added, wearily smiling. "I didn't sell enough in the West to pay my railway fare." He seemed ill as well as sad, and Bertha felt sorry for him. "Won't you come with us for a ride?" "I'd rather have you stay and talk with me." "Oh, I can't do that! The Captain is waiting for me. He said to bring you."