he beautiful eyes.
"There is no real cause for enmity or hatred--absolutely none."

"I am thinking of you," he reminded her, reverting to the impossibility
of associating that thought with the other.

"Thank you; I am glad you can make even that much of a concession. It is
more than another would make." Then, with the unexpectedness which was
all her own: "I am still curious to know what you did to Mr. Wingfield:
that day when he so nearly lost his life in the laboratory?"

"At what time in that day?" he asked, meaning to dodge if he could.

"You know--when you had him here in your office, with Jerry and Mr.
Bromley."

"I don't remember all the things I did to him, that day and before it. I
believe I made him welcome--when I had to. He hasn't been using his
welcome much lately, though."

"No; not since that day that came near ending so terribly. I'd like to
know what happened."

"Nothing--of any consequence. I believe I told you that Wingfield was
boring us with the plot of a new play."

"Yes; and you said you couldn't remember it."

"I don't want to remember it. Let's talk of something else. Is your
anxiety--the trouble you refuse to share with me--any lighter?"

"No--yes; just for the moment, perhaps."

"Are you still determined not to let me efface it for you?"

"You couldn't; no one can. It can never be effaced."

His smile was the man's smile of superior wisdom.

"Don't we always say that when the trouble is personal?"

She ignored the query completely, and her rejoinder was totally
irrelevant--or it seemed to be.

"You think I came down here to ask you to send over to Alta Vista for
Professor Gardiner. That was merely an excuse. I wanted to beg you once
again to suspend judgment--not to be vindictive."

Again he dissimulated. "I'm not vindictive: why should I be?"

"You have every reason; or, at least, you believe you have." She leaned
over the arm of the driving-seat and searched his eyes pleadingly:
"Please tell me: how much did Mr. Wingfield find out?"

It was blankly impossible to tell her the hideous truth, or anything
remotely approaching it. But his parrying of her question was passing
skilless.

"Not being a mind-reader, I can't say what Wingfield knows--or thinks he
knows. Our disagreement turned upon his threat to make literary material
out of--well, out of matters that were in a good measure my own private
and personal affairs."

"Oh; so there _was_ a quarrel? That is more than