Ridgway was an egoist from head to heel. He could voice his own praises by the hour when necessary, but now he side-stepped her little trap to make him praise himself at second-hand. “Better ask him.” “ARE you a fighter, then?” Had he known her and her whimsies less well, he might have taken her audacity for innocence. “One couldn’t lie down, you know.” “Of course, you always fight fair,” she mocked. “When a fellow’s attacked by a gang of thugs he doesn’t pray for boxing-gloves. He lets fly with a coupling-pin if that’s what comes handy.” Her eyes, glinting sparks of mischief, marveled at him with mock reverence, but she knew in her heart that her mockery was a fraud. She did admire him; admired him even while she disapproved the magnificent lawlessness of him. For Waring Ridgway looked every inch the indomitable fighter he was. He stood six feet to the line, straight and strong, carrying just sufficient bulk to temper his restless energy without impairing its power. Nor did the face offer any shock of disappointment to the promise given by the splendid figure. Salient-jawed and forceful, set with cool, flinty, blue-gray eyes, no place for weakness could be found there. One might have read a moral callousness, a colorblindness in points of rectitude, but when the last word had been said, its masterful capability, remained the outstanding impression. “Am I out of the witness-box?” he presently asked, still leaning against the mantel from which he had been watching her impersonally as an intellectual entertainment. “I think so.” “And the verdict?” “You know what it ought to be,” she accused. “Fortunately, kisses go by favor, not by, merit.” “You don’t even make a pretense of deserving.” “Give me credit for being an honest rogue, at least.” “But a rogue?” she insisted lightly. “Oh, a question of definitions. I could make a very good case for myself as an honest man.” “If you thought it worth while?” “If I didn’t happen to want to be square with you”—he smiled. “You’re so fond of me, I suppose, that you couldn’t bear to have me think too well of you.” “You know how fond of you I am.” “Yes, it is a pity about you,” she scoffed. “Believe me, yes,” he replied cheerfully. She drummed with her pink finger-tips on her chin, studying him meditatively. To do him justice, she had to admit that he did not even pretend much. He wanted her because she was a step up in the social ladder, and, in his opinion, the most attractive girl he knew. That he was not in love with her relieved the situation, as Miss Balfour admitted to herself in impersonal moods. But there were times when she could have wished he were. She felt it to be really due her attractions that his pulses should quicken for her, and in the interests of experience she would have liked to see how he would make love if he really meant it from the heart and not the will. “It’s really an awful bother,” she sighed. “Referring to the little problem of your future?” “Yes.”