“Don’t talk about it. It’s done. If you made a mistake, it’s done, and that’s the end. Oh, Jerry, don’t talk about it.” She rose to her feet; the room was getting dim. Outside the royal dyes of sunset had faded from the sky and the twilight was softly settling. “I’ll have to light the gas,” she stammered. “The servants haven’t come in yet. This half-light makes me blue.” Jerry stood aside as she went to the mantel and from among the embanked flowers drew the matchbox. The chandelier hung just above his head draped with garlands of smilax. It was high and as June came forward with the lighted match, he stretched out his hand to take it from her. They were close together under the chandelier as their hands touched. Each felt the tremulous cold of the other’s fingers and the match dropped, a red spark, between them. With suddenly-caught breath Jerry stretched his arms out to clasp her but she drew back, her hands outspread before her, crying, “Don’t, Jerry, don’t! Oh, please don’t!” She backed away from him and he followed her, not speaking, his face set, his arms ready to enfold her. She was stopped in her recoil by the sofa, and standing against it she looked at him, with agonized pleading, whispering, “Don’t, Jerry. Oh, please go. Please go and leave me! You loved me once.” He stopped, stood looking at her for a moment of stricken irresolution, then turned without a word and left the room. June fell on the sofa, her face in her hands. She heard his step in the passage, then sharp on every stair as he ran down to the street. In the darkening room she sat trembling, her face hidden, alone in the empty house. CHAPTER IV A WOMAN’S “NO” Rion Gracey called on June as the Colonel had suggested, called again the week after, and in a short time formed a habit of dropping in every Sunday evening. He generally found the Colonel there, and in the first stages of reopening the friendship the elder man had been very convenient in relieving the meetings of the constraint which was bound to hover over them. But as the spring Sundays passed and the constraint wore away, Rion did not so thoroughly appreciate the presence of his friend. With surprise at his own subtility--for the mining man was of those who go forcefully over obstacles, not around them--he discovered what evenings the Colonel did not dine with June and began to make his appearance then. He generally found her alone. She had made no effort to enlarge her acquaintance, and after the wedding her father was constantly in San Francisco or at more congenial haunts in the town. It raised agitating hopes in Rion to see that she was openly and unaffectedly glad to see him. There was a confidence, a something of trust and reliance in her manner that--for him--had not been there before. He thought she had never been so winning as she was on these lonely evenings, when her face lighted at the sight of him, and her smile was full of a soft welcome, touched with girlish shyness.