And yet somehow there was some justification for the trick. It was the justification of desire. The things a man wants are not to be denied by the narrow standards of custom. Does a man miss an opportunity to establish acquaintance with a girl he has fallen in love with, merely because custom has decreed that she shall not come unattended—save by a negro woman—to his house? Taylor made desire his justification, and his sense of guilt was dispelled by half. Nor was the guilt so poignant that it rested heavily on his conscience since he had done no harm to the girl. What harm had been done had been done to Taylor himself. He kept seeing Marion as she sat on the porch, and the spell of her had seized him so firmly that last night, after she had left, the ranchhouse had seemed to be nothing more than four walls out of which all the life had gone. He felt lonesome this morning, and was in the grip of a nameless longing. All the humor had departed from him. For the first time in all his days a conception of the meaning of life assailed him, revealing to him a glimpse of the difficulties of a man in love. For a man may love a girl: his difficulties begin when the girl seems to become unattainable. Looming large in Taylor’s thoughts this morning was Carrington. Having overheard Carrington talking of her on the train, Taylor thought he knew what Carrington wanted; but he was in doubt regarding the state of the girl’s feelings toward the man. Had she yielded to the man’s intense personal magnetism? Carrington was handsome; there was no doubt that almost any girl would be flattered by his attentions. And had Carrington been worthy of Marion, Taylor would have entertained no hope of success—he would not even have thought of it. But he had overheard Carrington; he knew the man’s nature was vile and bestial; and already he hated him with a fervor that made his blood riot when he thought of him. When he reached Dawes he found himself hoping that Marion would not be in town to see that his ankle was unbandaged. But he might have saved himself that throb of perturbation, for at that minute Marion was standing in the front room of the big house, looking out of one of the windows at Parsons, wondering what had happened to make him seem so glum and abstracted. When Taylor dismounted in front of the courthouse there were several men grouped on the sidewalk near the door. Neil Norton was in the group, and he came forward, smiling. “We’re here to witness the ceremony,” he told Taylor. Taylor’s greeting to the other men was not that of the professional politician. He merely grinned at them and returned a short: “Well, let’s get it over with,” to Norton’s remark. Then, followed by his friends, he entered the courthouse. Taylor knew Judge Littlefield. He had no admiration for the man, and yet his greeting was polite and courteous—it was the greeting of an American citizen to an official.