"Issue your orders," he insisted. "I am waiting to obey." She hesitated again, then said, slowly: "Have your hair cut. It's the one uncivilized thing about you." For an instant, Samson's face hardened. "No," he said; "I don't care to do that." "Oh, very well!" she laughed, lightly. "In that event, of course, you shouldn't do it." But her smile faded, and after a moment he explained: "You see, it wouldn't do." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I've got to keep something as it was to remind me of a prior claim on my life." For an instant the girl's face clouded, and grew deeply troubled. "You don't mean," she asked, with an outburst of interest more vehement than she had meant to show, or realized that she was showing--"you don't mean that you still adhere to ideas of the vendetta?" Then she broke off with a laugh, a rather nervous laugh. "Of course not," she answered herself. "That would be too absurd!" "Would it?" asked Samson, simply. He glanced at his watch. "Two minutes up," he announced. "The model will please resume the pose. By the way, may I drive with you to-morrow afternoon?" * * * * * The next afternoon, Samson ran up the street steps of the Lescott house, and rang the bell, and a few moments later Adrienne appeared. The car was waiting outside, and, as the girl came down the stairs in motor coat and veil, she paused and her fingers on the bannisters tightened in surprise as she looked at the man who stood below holding his hat in his hand, with his face upturned. The well-shaped head was no longer marred by the mane which it had formerly worn, but was close cropped, and under the transforming influence of the change the forehead seemed bolder and higher, and to her thinking the strength of the purposeful features was enhanced, and yet, had she known it, the man felt that he had for the first time surrendered a point which meant an abandonment of something akin to principle. She said nothing, but as she took his hand in greeting, her fingers pressed his own in handclasp more lingering than usual. Late that evening, when Samson returned to the studio, he found a missive in his letter-box, and, as he took it out, his eyes fell on the postmark. It was dated from Hixon, Kentucky, and, as the man slowly climbed the stairs, he turned the envelope over in his hand with a strange sense of misgiving and premonition. CHAPTER XXIII The letter was written in the cramped hand of Brother Spencer. Through its faulty diction ran a plainly discernible undernote of disapproval for Samson, though there was no word of reproof or criticism. It was plain that it was sent as a matter of courtesy to one who, having proven an apostate, scarcely merited such consideration. It informed him that old Spicer South had been "mighty porely," but was now better, barring the breaking of age. Every one was "tolerable." Then came the announcement which the letter had been written to convey.