Hemenway frowned. There was such a thing as carrying this modesty too far. “Your singing, too—it was delightful!” he continued smoothly. “And so kind of you to do it!” Miss Barrington turned a leaf of her book with an unnecessary rustling of the paper. “Feigning indifference,” commented Hemenway to himself. “I’ve seen ’em do that before.” “You looked so tired that night after the funerals. I actually worried about you—you looked sick,” he said next, in what was meant for tender tones. Miss Barrington’s eyes narrowed ominously as she replied: “Mr. Hemenway, my actions and my looks can have no possible interest for you. I should be obliged if you would cease to consider them.” To Hemenway’s perverted fancy this was but a bit of shy bait. He promptly took advantage of it. “On the contrary, I have the very greatest interest, my dear Miss Barrington—the very warmest interest. I—I—Miss Barrington, as you may be aware, I am a rich man now.” “That does not concern me in the least,” retorted Ethel sharply. A strange expression came over Hemenway’s face. For the first time a doubt shook his egotistical content. His eyes grew hard. No maidenly shyness prompted that speech. Still—possibly she had not understood. “Miss Barrington, it has long been in my mind to ask you to be my wife. I love you, and now I am rich I am confident I can make you——” “Stop! I won’t even listen to you!” Miss Barrington was on her feet, her eyes blazing. Hemenway rose and faced her. All his polish dropped like a mask, and the real man looked out from beneath angrily frowning brows. “You won’t listen, my fine lady? And why not, pray? Ain’t I good enough to speak to you?” “I hate you—I despise you—oh, I loathe the very sight of you!” shuddered Ethel, losing all control of herself. “Now will you leave me in peace—or must I say more before you quite understand me?” Hate—despise—loathe; these words Hemenway knew. The delicate shafts of society sarcasm fell powerless against his shield of self-conceit, but these heavier darts struck home and reached a vital point—his pride. His face grew livid. “Will you go?” repeated Ethel impatiently, not a quiver of fear in the scorn of her eyes—“or shall I?” she added. “Neither one!” he retorted insolently. For answer Ethel wheeled and took two steps toward the path. Hemenway was at her side in an instant with a clutch on her wrist that hurt her. “Coward!” she cried. “Would you force me to scream for protection?” “Do so, if you like—there’s not a house within earshot, and the inhabitants of this region are not given to walking for pleasure!” He released her wrist and stepped again in front of her. The sharp throb of terror that paled Ethel’s cheek was followed by one of joy that sent the color back in surging waves—Hustler Joe’s shanty just behind those trees! It was after six—he must be there. If worst came to worst——! “Mr. Hemenway, this is altogether too theatrical. I ask you again—will you let me pass?”