“Oh, don’t pretend to be young-missish. If you’re not alone, I won’t leave you alone, that’s what I mean.” The reply stung her as would a lash from a whip; he had a right to make it, a right given to him by her—in that lay the sting. It was a mere question of buying and selling now with her; and this man had bought and demanded payment. “Where have you been?” he asked. “It doesn’t concern you,” she replied fiercely. “I don’t belong to you. Go away.” “Go away! Don’t be rude, and don’t tempt me to be rude and remind you of facts.” “There is nothing to compel me to keep you here to-night. Will you go?” He stood up, yawned, stretched his arms and then stood looking at her insolently. “You’re deuced pretty, as you know, and look splendid in those clothes—but clothes cost money and money can’t be got for nothing.” “You beast!” “Beauty and the beast, capital!” Then he seized her by the wrists and looked her up and down, as if she were something offered for sale of which he was trying to appraise the value. “You little fool, you’re young and pretty now, but in a few years you won’t be so proud. All right. There are others in the market besides you, and they do pretend, at any rate, to be glad to see me. But mind, she that will not when she may. Well, I’m off. Ta-ta!” She did not move until she heard the outer door shut behind him. He had frightened her, and what was worse had driven home to her the fact that she was for sale. For sale to any man who chose to buy—unless West should rescue her. CHAPTER XXI IN the early days of their acquaintanceship Mrs. Harding had felt very favorably disposed toward Marian, but gradually appreciation had given place to envy, and liking had been displaced by dislike. She understood that Marian was her superior not only in beauty, which she would have forgiven, but in education and social standing, which deeply galled her. She realized how badly she compared with Marian in conversation and the amenities of life. At first she laughed, shrugged her sturdy shoulders, consoling herself with the thought that after all men do not fall in love with a tongue; but gradually, as she realized that pretty speech is an excellent support to a pretty face, she began to hate Marian’s dainty ways and facile talk. More than once, too, Marian had shown by some little gesture or some uncontrolled look that Mrs. Harding’s coarse coarseness annoyed and jarred upon her. The latter’s treachery also filled her with the spite that so often comes to a mean spirit, who has wronged another. It was not the first time that Davis had called on her to spy upon a woman with whom she was upon terms of familiarity, but in other cases the victims had always been those to whom she had not made any pretense of real friendship and whose confidence she had not sought. But Marian had trusted her, and the betrayal of this trust, combined with jealousy, drove her for refuge from compunction to hatred and malice.