"He's in love with me," Isabel said coolly. "And he's so afraid of me that he hasn't sense enough to see that all he has to do is to hold out his hands and I'll fall into 'em like a--a ripe plum. Can't you give him a hint, Rod?" "Haven't you scalps enough at your belt without Andy's?" "If I give him mine in exchange, that's fair enough," Isabel murmured. "Do you really mean that?" Rod asked. Isabel got out her cigarette case and deliberately blew smoke rings before she replied. "I don't know for sure," she said at last. "Sometimes I think so, and again I'm not so sure. I could tell better if he'd ask me. It isn't that I wouldn't like to. It's simply that I have qualms of conscience sometimes about wishing myself on a man like that. I'm so damned useless, Rod." "I don't think that men as a rule love women and marry them on the basis of their usefulness," he returned. "I'm certain Andy wouldn't. I must say it's rather odd to see you taking that slant at it." "Oh, yes," she drawled petulantly. "I suppose you've got me labelled fragile, too. Just because a fellow's been brought up gilt-edged and has acted accordingly, is she to be credited with neither heart nor conscience, nor even common sense? I have come to the conclusion that I don't want to be a canary in anybody's cage, Rod. When I size up some of the horrible examples of how not to do it in my own crowd, I get afraid. I'm twenty-six years old, Roderick. Does it never strike you that a girl like me doesn't play a lone hand so long without good reasons?" "What's that got to do with Andy?" Rod inquired.