Jim felt Marie’s black eyes upon him, but he did not look at her. She was studying him, appraising him. He was conscious of it, yet endeavored to appear unconscious. He felt she was more inclined toward friendliness with him than ever before, and because he perceived that she needed friendship—not because of any leaning toward her—he feared to show even by a glance that he was aware of a better understanding between them. It would be so easy to frighten her away. Moran pushed back his chair. “I must catch my train, Mrs. Stickney. I always enjoy my suppers with you. They remind me of suppers I used to eat at grandmother’s farm.” “It’s a good thing for men to git reminded of their grandmothers once in a while,” she answered, cryptically. “You’re coming to see me to the door, Marie?” Moran said. It seemed to Jim more a command than a question. Marie obeyed, and the man and girl left the room. Jim emptied his coffee-cup, which was not a thing to do quickly when the widow had made the coffee. Indeed not! One sipped and tasted and stopped betweenwhiles to think on the aroma of it. Presently Jim set down his empty cup. “More?” asked the widow. “Thank you, no.” Jim moved back his chair. He was frowning at the tablecloth abstractedly. “Hum!” said the widow. It was a very significant, expressive hum, an eloquent hum, but, withal, a hum that needed further elucidation before it became wholly and perfectly clear. “The difference between girls,” she said, “is that most of them is just ordinarily foolish.” “And the difference between men,” said Jim, “is that some of them are like Michael Moran.” “I calc’late from that,” she said, “that your heart don’t flow out to him in love and admiration.” “It’s men like him that make murder a virtue.” “Hum!” said the widow. “I’ll say this for you, you don’t leave folks fumblin’ round to understand your meanin’.” “I said exactly what I meant. Mrs. Stickney, Miss Ducharme is in a dangerous humor. I can’t make her out. Probably it is because I’m too young. But you ought to understand her—whether she means some of the reckless things she says. I believe she does. She has intelligence and a will, which makes the condition more dangerous. She talks about choosing her course when Diversity becomes unbearable. Michael Moran is planning to be present when that time comes. Possibly his plans include making Diversity unbearable. At any rate, he plans and plans, and because he is what he is, because she knows he is what he is, he offers her an opportunity of escape. He offers her what she thinks is an opportunity to choose. But it won’t be any such thing. When she chooses—if ever she does choose—to go to him, it will be because he has planned it and forced the choice.” “Hum!” said the widow again, eying him with eyes that age had not robbed of their brightness. “Hum!”