Before he realized what had happened, Scipio found himself in the full glare of the light from the doorway, and James was smiling down upon his yellow head with a curious blending of insolence and curiosity. "I was wondering when you'd get around," he said, without shifting his position. Then, as Scipio made no answer, he bestirred himself. "Come right in," he added, and, lounging out of the doorway, he dropped back into the room. "You'll find things a bit untidy," he went on calmly, "you see I'm making changes in my domestic arrangements. This is temporary, I guess. However, if you don't just mind that, why--come right in." The man's whole manner was one of good-humored indifference. There was an unruffled assurance about him that was quite perfect, if studied. Scipio's presence there seemed the last thing of concern to him. And the effect of his manner on his visitor entirely upset all the latter's preconceived intentions. Astonishment was his first feeling. Then a sudden diffidence seized him, a diffidence that was nearly akin to fear of his rival. But this passed in a moment, and was instantly replaced by a hot rush of blood through his small body. All his pictured interview died out of his recollections, and, in place of that calmness with which he had intended to meet the man, he found his pulses hammering and hot anger mounting to his head. The commonest of human passions stirred in him, and he felt it would be good to hurt this man who had so wronged him. "Where's my wife?" he demanded, with a sudden fierceness. "Oh--it's that. Say, come right in?" James was still smiling pleasantly. This time Scipio accepted the invitation without thought of trap or anything else. He almost precipitated himself into the room. Nor in his fury did he observe his surroundings. He had no eyes for the furnishings, the cheap comfort with which he was surrounded. And though, as James had said, the place was untidy, he saw nothing and none of it. His eyes were on the man; angry, bloodshot eyes, such eyes as those of a furiously goaded dog, driven into a corner by the cruel lash of a bully's whip. "Yes, that's it. Wher's my wife?" Scipio demanded threateningly. "You've stole her, and taken her from me. I've come to take her back." The force of his demands was tinged with the simplicity of a naturally gentle disposition. And maybe, in consequence, something of their sting was lost. The forceful bluster of an outraged man, determined upon enforcing his demands, would probably have stirred James to active protest, but, as it was, he only continued to smile his insolence upon one whom he regarded as little better than a harmless worm.