She had told Jim her love would be a fiery thing, jealous, demanding. She had seen it so; but now she knew love was not of that warp and woof. The joy of love was in service, in surrender. It lay not in compelling service of its object, but in rendering service to him. In that spirit she had gone to Jim; and how had he received her? So she believed she hated him. Also, as she tried to peer ahead, she saw a future without peace, troubled, dark. If it were to be so, what was the use of further struggle? In the old days she had contemplated without abhorrence a deliberate choice of the lower course. Now she fondled the suggestion. If that way had pleasure, life, joys, no matter how spurious, why should she not take them? Life owed her something. Hitherto it had withheld; latterly it had ruthlessly heaped woe upon her. Why not reach out and seize whatever the world had to give? It would entail pain, perhaps. But would that be harder to bear than what lay ahead if she held steadfast in the course she had chosen? Love had come—and gone. It would not renew its coming. Such was her judgment. Moran came, sat beside her. He was agitated, not wholly by his feeling for her, but by rage, jealousy, vindictiveness which he burned to vent on Jim Ashe. When he spoke, that gentler note which he had used in talking to her on former occasions was absent from his voice; it was harsh, strained. Marie sat numb, silent, shivering a trifle. She was conscious of a physical repulsion for the man; conscious she would be compelled to pay a price exorbitant for the toys she hoped to buy. “Marie,” said Moran, “you’ve dallied with me. You’ve held me off. You’ve pretended not to understand me when I knew you understood, when it was plain you did understand. And I’ve been patient—because a man must be a fool when he deals with women. You’re no child. You know what you want. You know I can give it to you. When are you going to make up your mind?” “When I am ready to make up my mind. When I know what I want.” “You know now. It’s just the infernal woman in you that wants to toy with a man. I’m no man to be toyed with—past a safe point. I’d have been contented to play your game a little longer if it hadn’t been for old Frame’s meddling.” “Judge Frame? What meddling?” Moran shrugged his shoulders angrily. “Don’t talk as if you thought I was an imbecile. What meddling? Don’t you suppose I knew why old Frame sent that man Ashe here?” At mention of Jim’s name Marie winced. “Why did Judge Frame—” “To marry you,” said Moran, his tone brutal as a blow. “And you knew it. You’ve been playing Ashe against me—to see which of us you could get the most from. You’ve landed Ashe high and dry—anybody can see that. It’s my business to see Ashe doesn’t land you.” Jealousy showed there. Marie flinched as though Moran touched an exposed nerve. “I hate him! I hate him!” she cried.