nd breathing heavily in their emotion, they looked at each other
with hard, angry eyes--eyes in which there was not a trace of the
affection which for years had existed between them.

"Suit yourself," she said, finally, and turned her back on him.

Wallie went to his room in a daze, too bewildered to realize immediately
what had happened. That he had quarrelled with his aunt, permanently,
irrevocably, seemed incredible. But he would never eat her bread of
charity again--he had said it. As for her, he knew her Scotch
stubbornness too well to think that she would offer it. No, he was sure
the break was final.

A sense of freedom came to him gradually as it grew upon him that he was
loose from the apron-strings that had led him since childhood. He need
never again eat food he did not like because it was "good for him." He
could sit in draughts if he wanted to and sneeze his head off. He could
put on his woollen underwear when he got darned good and ready. He could
swim when there were white caps in the harbour and choose his own
clothing.

A fine feeling of exultation swept over Wallie as he strode up and down
with an eye to the way he looked in the mirror. He was free of petticoat
domination. He was no longer a "squaw-man," and he would not be one
again for a million dollars! He would "show" Aunt Mary--he would "show"
Helene Spenceley--he would "show" _everybody!_

CHAPTER VI

"BURNING HIS BRIDGES"

Wallie opened his eyes one morning with the subconscious feeling that
something portentous was impending though he was still too drowsy to
remember it.

He yawned and stretched languidly and luxuriously on a bed which was the
last word in comfort, since Mr. Cone's pride in The Colonial beds was
second only to that of his pride in the hotel's reputation for
exclusiveness. With especially made mattresses and monogrammed linen,
silken coverlets and imported blankets, his boasts were amply justified,
and the beds perhaps accounted for the frequency with which the guests
tried to get into the dining room when the breakfast hours were over.

A bit of yellow paper on the chiffonier brought Wallie to his full sense
as his eyes fell upon it. It was the answer to a telegram he had sent
Pinkey Fripp, in Prouty, Wyoming, making inquiries as to the possibility
of taking up a homestead.

It read:

They's a good piece of ground you can file on if you got
the guts to hold it.