"Oh, yes, you had," she went on smoothly. "In the 'other life', as you call it, you would have been quite willing to marry a woman who could assure you a firm social standing and money enough to put you on a footing with other men of your capabilities. You wouldn't be willing to do that now, would you?--leaving the sentiment out as you used to leave it out then?" "No, I hardly think I should." Her laugh was musically low and sweet, and only mildly derisive. "You are thinking that it is change of environment, wider horizons, and all that, which has changed you, Montague; but I know better. It is a woman, and, as you may remember, I have met her--twice." Then, with a faint glow of spiteful fire in the magnificent eyes: "How can you make yourself believe that she is pretty?" He shrugged one shoulder in token of the utter uselessness of discussion in that direction. "Sentiment?" he queried. "I think we needn't go into that, at this late day, Verda. It is a field that neither of us entered, or cared to enter, in the days that are gone. If I say that Corona Baldwin has--quite unconsciously on her part, I must ask you to believe--taught me what love means, that ought to be enough." Again she was laughing softly. "You seem to have broadly forgotten the old proverb about a woman scorned. What have you to expect from me after making such an admission as that?" Smith pulled himself together and stood the argument firmly upon its unquestionable footing. "Let us put all these indirections aside and be for the moment merely a man and a woman, as God made us, Verda," he said soberly. "You know, and I know, that there was never any question of love involved in our relations past and gone. We might have married, but in that case neither of us would have gotten or exacted anything more than the conventional decencies and amenities. We mustn't try to make believe at this late day. You had no illusions about me when I was Watrous Dunham's hired man; you haven't any illusions about me now." "Perhaps not," was the calm rejoinder. "And yet to-day I have lied to save you from those who are trying to crush you." "I told you not to do that," he rejoined quickly. "I know you did; and yet, when you went away this morning you knew perfectly well that I was going to do it if I should get the opportunity. Didn't you, Montague?" He nodded slowly; common honesty demanded that much. "Very well; you accepted the service, and I gave it freely. Mr. Kinzie believes now that you are another Smith--not the one who ran away from Lawrenceville last May. Tell me: would the other woman have done as much if the chance had fallen to her?" It was on the tip of his tongue to say, "I hope not," but he did not say it. Instead, he said: "But you don't really care, Verda; in the way you are trying to make me believe you do." "Possibly not; possibly I am wholly selfish in the matter and am only looking for some loophole of escape." "Escape? From whom?"