If he had been more calm, more like his usual cautious and wily self, he would have comprehended that the glint in those eyes of hers was a danger signal which it might be best to heed. But he was angry and chagrined. Ever since Millard Clark had told him of the meetings in the Eldridge shanty he had been brooding over the disclosure. He was furious at her for keeping the secret from him and more furious at himself for being so easily hoodwinked. His serene self-confidence was decidedly shaken. Apparently this skittish colt was not so completely broken to harness as he had supposed. How many other secrets might she be hiding behind that innocent exterior? And the thought that a grandson of his arch enemy should have shared a secret with her was the crowning ignominy. “It depends on what you call a lie, I should say,” he growled. “If slipping out of this house time after time and pretending to me that--” “I didn’t pretend anything. If you had asked me I should have told you. I haven’t done anything that I am ashamed of. Not a single thing.” “You haven’t! Well, then I’m ashamed for you. Sneaking down to that God-forsaken place a half dozen times a week and shutting yourself up with that--that cub isn’t--” “Stop!” She sprang to her feet, her fists clinched and her cheeks ablaze. “You _shan’t_ say such things to me!” she cried. “You haven’t any right to say them. I don’t care if you are--if you have done everything in the world for me. You needn’t do any more. I was--I was going to tell you all about it, every word, just as soon as your birthday came, and give you the picture. I-- Oh, I thought you would like it! It was going to be a surprise and--and--” “Here!” he broke in. “Hold on! What’s all this?” She did not heed. The tears were running down her cheeks but they were tears of anger and humiliation. Her utterance was choked with sobs and she was on the verge of hysterics. “Oh, how _can_ you talk to me like this!” she stormed. “Say that I ‘sneaked’ and that I shut myself up with--with him, as if--as if-- Oh, you ought to be ashamed to even think such things! Hinting that he and I--I’ll never speak to you again! I hate you! I’m going away from this house to-morrow morning. I don’t care what becomes of me! I--oh--!” She rushed from the room and the door banged behind her. Foster Townsend took a step toward it. “Esther!” he called. “Here, Esther! Come back!” She did not come back; he heard her run up the stairs and a distant slam announced that the door of her own room, the pink room, had closed also. He swore disgustedly and, stalking to the library, threw himself into the leather chair. There, behind a cigar which he did not enjoy, he sat for an hour or more trying to think his way out of this new complication. The sole conclusion which he reached was the unflattering one that he had made a mess of things.