“Good by,” said Barron, holding out his hand; “it’s a good thing we had this minute of talk.” “Good by,” she answered, returning the pressure with a grip almost as manly; “it’s been awfully good to see you again. I must get a move on. So long.” And they parted, Barron turning his face toward the Garcia house, where he had an engagement to take the boys to the beach at the foot of Hyde Street, and Mrs. Willers to _The Trumpet_ office. Her walk did not occupy more than fifteen minutes, and during that time the anger roused by the mining man’s words grew apace. From smothered indignation it passed to a state of simmering passion. Her conscience heated it still further, for it was she who had introduced Essex to Mariposa, and in the first stages of their acquaintance had in a careless way encouraged the friendship, thinking it would be cheerful for the solitary girl to have the occasional companionship of this clever and interesting man of the world. She had thoughtlessly kindled a fire that might burn far past her power of control and lead to irreparable disaster. She inferred from Barron’s story that Essex was evidently attempting to frighten Mariposa into smiling on his suit. The cowardice of the action enraged her, for, though Mrs. Willers had known many men of many faults, she had counted no cowards among her friends. Her point of view was Western. A man might do many things that offend Eastern conventions and retain her consideration. But, as she expressed it to herself in the walk down Third Street, “He’s got to know that in this country they don’t drag women shrieking to the altar.” She ran up the stairs of _The Trumpet_ building with the lightness of a girl of sixteen. Ire gave wings to her feet, and it was ire as much as the speed of her ascent that made her catch her breath quickly at the top of the fourth flight. Still, even then, she might have held her indignation in check,--years of training in expedient self-control being a powerful force in the energetic business woman,--had she not caught a glimpse of Essex in his den as she passed the open door. He was sitting at his desk, leaning languidly back in his chair, evidently thinking. His face, turned toward her, looked worn and hard, the lids drooping with their air of faintly bored insolence. Hearing the rustle of her dress, he looked up and saw her making a momentary pause by the doorway. He did not look pleased at the sight of her. “Ah, Mrs. Willers,” he said, leaning forward to pick up his pen and speaking with the crisp clearness of utterance certain people employ when irritated, “what is it that you want to see me about?” “Nothing,” said Mrs. Willers abruptly and with battle in her tone; “why should I?” “I have not the least idea,” he answered, looking at his pen, and then, dipping it in the ink, “unless perhaps you want a few hints for your forthcoming article, ‘The Kind of Shoestrings Worn by the Crowned Heads of Europe.’”