“Did you manage to convince him to the contrary?” she asked unsteadily. “I promised to meet his losses out of my own pocket and square him with the bank. That seemed to convince him.” She leaned back among the pillows, breathing deeply and tremulously, and he watched her smiling. “What did you think?” he asked. “Oh, I didn’t think at all--I couldn’t. I heard what he shouted at you just as I went out and it made me--sick. I didn’t dare to think.” He sat down beside her on the sofa and stroked her hand. “I’ve been silly again,” she went on presently. “You see, you haven’t told me about any of your plans lately, and I’m so used to knowing that when you don’t tell me I get to imagining things--all sorts of things.” “What would you have done if I had--if I had run it into Curtin that way? What would you think of me?” “Don’t,” she said quickly, “don’t try to tease me about it. I didn’t really think so for a minute.” “The fact is,” said Sponley, thoughtfully, “that this sort of life is too much for you. Yes, it is,” he repeated in answer to the dissenting movement of her head, “and I believe it’s too much for me, too; at any rate, I’m getting a lot less enthusiastic about it; I’m beginning to like to get away from it--and that’s something new for me. I suppose that’s the reason I’ve had so little to say about it to you. When I get home I like to think about other things, just as we did to-night at dinner. We’ll have to shut up shop permanently, pretty soon, and get off where it’s quiet; buy a farm somewhere, and we’ll go into politics and run for supervisor or something. Won’t that be a good thing to do?” Her only answer was a low, contented laugh, and then they both were silent. Melville Sponley was at that moment just at the beginning of one of the biggest and most daring campaigns he ever planned. For months he had been ready for it; in the past few days certain facts had transpired which had enabled him to fix his plans definitely. The preliminary moves were already made. The next move was a certain proposition he meant to make to John Bagsbury that evening. The object of it all was to break Pickering’s corner in lard. The campaign would be difficult, but in point of strategy it was the neatest he had ever planned. All the foresight he had shown in dealing with John during the past few months would come to his help now. But right on the threshold he was hesitating. He had told Harriet the truth in saying that he was beginning to wish to quit. He had been promising himself right along that this campaign should be his last. He was rich enough to stop now, as far as that went. And after all, why not? Indecision was a state of mind quite foreign to him, but to-night his mind swung from one side to the other. When Harriet finally broke the long silence, she almost startled him.