"As you did, for example," she retorted, filled with anger over his present solicitation for her welfare, as contrasted to his treatment of her on another occasion. A slow red filled his cheeks. Evidently he did possess _some_ self-respect, after all. Contrition, too, she thought she could detect in his manner and in his voice. "But I didn't hurt you, anyway," he said, eyeing her steadily. "Not if you call ruining a woman's name not 'hurting' her," she answered bitterly. "I am sorry for that, Miss Sheila," he said earnestly. "I had an idea that night--and still have it, for that matter--that I was an instrument-- Well, I had an idea, that's all. But I haven't told anybody about what happened--I haven't even hinted it to anybody. And I told the parson to get out of the country, so he wouldn't do any gassing about it. And I haven't been over to Dry Bottom to have the marriage recorded--and I am not going to go. So that you can have it set aside at any time." Yes, she could have the marriage annulled, she knew that. But the contemplation of her release from the tie that bound her to him did not lessen the gravity of the offense in her eyes. She told herself that she hated him with a remorseless passion which would never cease until he ceased to live. No action of his could repair the damage he had done to her. She told him so, plainly. "I didn't know you were so blood-thirsty as that," he laughed in quiet mockery. "Maybe it would be a good thing for you if I did die--or get killed. But I'm not allowing that I'm ready to die yet, and certainly am not going to let anybody kill me if I can prevent it. I reckon you're not thinking of doing the killing yourself?" "If I told my father--" she began, but hesitated when she saw his lips suddenly straighten and harden and his eyes light with a deep contempt. "So you haven't told your father?" he laughed. "I was sure you had taken him into your confidence by this time. But I reckon it's a mighty good thing that you didn't--for your father. Like as not if you'd tell him he'd get some riled and come right over to see me, yearning for my blood. And then I'd have to shoot him up some. And that would sure be too bad--you loving him as you do." "I suppose you would shoot him like you shot that poor fellow in Lazette," she taunted, bitterly. "Like I did that poor fellow in Lazette," he said, with broad, ironic emphasis. "You saw me shoot Blanca, of course, for you were there. But you don't know what made me shoot him, and I am not going to tell you--it's none of your business." "Indeed!" Her voice was burdened with contempt. "I suppose you take a certain pride in your ability to murder people." She placed a venomous accent on the "Murder." "Lots of people ought to be murdered," he drawled, using the accent she had used. Her contempt of him grew. "Then I presume you have others in mind--whom you will shoot when the mood strikes you?" she said.