"But you will be in and out of town sometimes, won't you, Nan?" "If I am, it will not be to talk with you." The words were spoken deliberately. De Spain was silent for a moment. "Not even to speak to me?" he asked. "You must know the position I am in," she answered. "And what a position you place me in if I am seen to speak to you. This is my home. You are the enemy of my people." "Not because I want to be." "And you can't expect them not to resent any acquaintance on my part with you." He paused before continuing. "Do you count Gale Morgan as one of your people?" he asked evenly. "I suppose I must." "Don't you think you ought to count all of your friends, your well-wishers, those who would defend you with their lives, among your people?" She made no answer. "Aren't they the kind of people," he persisted, "you need when you are in trouble?" "You needn't remind me I should be grateful to you----" "Nan!" he exclaimed. "For I am," she continued, unmoved. "But----" "It's a shame to accuse me in that way." "You were thinking when you spoke of what happened with Gale on Music Mountain." "I wish to God you and I were on Music Mountain again! I never lived or did anything worth living for, till you came to me that day on Music Mountain. It's true I was thinking of what happened when I spoke--but not to remind you you owed anything to me. You don't; get that out of your head." "I do, though." "I spoke in the way I did because I wanted to remind you of what might happen some time when I'm not near." "I shan't be caught off my guard again. I know how to defend myself from a drunken man." He could not restrain all the bitterness he felt. "That man," he said deliberately, "is more dangerous sober than drunk." "When I can't defend myself, my uncle will defend me." "Ask him to let me help." "He doesn't need any help. And he would never ask you, if he did. I can't live at home and know you; that is why I ask you not to come again." He was silent. "Don't you think, all things considered," she hesitated, as if not knowing how easiest to put it, "you ought to be willing to shake hands and say good-by?" "Why, if you wish it," he answered, taken aback. And he added more quietly, "yes, if you say so." "I mean for good." "I--" he returned, pausing, "don't." "You are not willing to be fair." "I want to be fair--I don't want to promise more than human nature will stand for--and then break my word." "I am not asking a whole lot." "Not a whole lot to you, I know. But do you really mean that you don't want me ever to speak to you again?" "If you must put it that way--yes." "Well," he took a long breath, "there is one way to make sure of that. I'll tell you honestly I don't want to stand in the way of such a wish, if it's really yours. As you have said, it isn't fair, perhaps, for me to go against it. Got your pistol with you, Nan?" "No." "That is the way you take care of yourself, is it?" "I'm not afraid of you."