"Where a question of principle is involved,--" Her lips curved ironically. "What would _you_ do, tell me, if a parcel of scamps were holding you up for the benefit of your enemies? Suppose you had a perfect right to do the business you had in hand. Would you put tail between legs and get out and leave your bone to the other dog?" "If I wanted to starve, yes! I should deserve to." "You and I think surprisingly alike very often!" "I always liked despots," she replied. "And, as a matter of fact, despots--the strong ones--have always really done things. They do to-day--only we make a fuss about it and get preachy. No, my friend, don't hesitate! The scrupulous ones will bow to you in time." "You would have made something of a man!" She bowed her head mockingly. "That is man's best compliment to poor, weak woman. But I am content, when I touch the driving hand, now and then." After a time she added:-- "You will find the way. It is not the last ditch, far from it. A man like you cannot be killed with one blow!" She had given the warning, done what she could, and now she trusted me to do the rest. Her will, her sympathy, were strong behind me. So when this moment was over, when she went her way and I mine, out into the world of cares and struggle, I might carry with me this bit of her courage, her sureness. I felt that, and I wanted to say it to her, to let her see that it was more herself than her good will or her help that I valued. But it was an awkward thing to say. Her hands lay upon the desk between us. They were not beautiful hands, merely strong, close-knit--hands to hold with a grip of death. I looked at them, thinking that in her hands was the sign of her character. She raised her eyes and gazed at me steadily for several moments. "You know how I feel?" I nodded. "You don't need a woman's sympathy--but I want you to know how I feel--for my own sake." "Thank you for it. In this life a man must stand pretty much alone, win or lose. I have always found it so--except when you and I have talked things over. That hasn't been often. This is a tight place I find myself in now. But there is a way out, or if there isn't--well, I have played the game better than most." "Even that thought doesn't give happiness," she mused. "I know, because, my friend, I, too, have stood alone all my life." She gave me this confidence simply, as a man might. "I suppose a woman counts on happiness," I said awkwardly in response. "But I have never counted much on that. There have always been many things to do, and I have done them, well or ill I can't say. But I have done them somehow." It was a clumsy answer, but I could find no proper words for what I felt. Such things are not to be said. There followed another of those full silences which counted with this woman for so much more than words. Again it was she who broke it:--