conception of living, he
would have broken down her indifference, but now--His mental deliberations
ended abruptly, for, even in his mind, he avoided all reference to
Lettice; they studiously omitted her name in their conversation.

"Are you going to the camp meeting on South Fork next week?" she
demanded. "I have never seen one. Buckley Simmons says all sorts of things
happen. He's going to take me on Saturday. I wish--" she broke off
pointedly.

"What?"

"I was going to say that I wish, well--I wish I were going with somebody
else than Buckley; he bothers me all the time."

"I'd like a lot to take you. It's not fit for you to go, though. The best
people in Greenstream don't. They get crazy with religion, and with rum;
often as not there's shooting."

"Oh! I had no idea. I don't know as I will go. I wish you would be there.
If I go will you be there to look out for me?"

"I hadn't thought of it. Still, if you're there, and want me around, I
guess that's where I will be."

"I feel better right away; I'll see you then; it's a sort of engagement
between you and me. Buckley Simmons needn't know. Perhaps we can slip away
from him for a while."

Voices rose from below them, and they drew back instinctively. Gordon
found in this desire to avoid observation an additional bond with Meta
Beggs; the aspect of secrecy gave a flavor to their communion. They
remained silent, with their shoulders pressed together, until the voices,
the footfalls, faded into the distance.

He rose to leave, and she held out her hand. At its touch he recalled how
pointed the fingers were; it was incredibly cool and smooth, yet it seemed
to instil a subtle fire in his palm. She stood framed in her doorway,
bathed in the intimate, disturbing aroma of her person. Gordon recalled
the cobwebby garment on the bed. He made an involuntary step toward her,
and she drew back into the room ... the night was breathlessly still. If
he took another step forward, he wondered, would she still retreat?
Somewhere in the dark interior he would come close to her.

"Good night." Her level, impersonal voice was like a breath of cold air
upon his face.

"Good night," he returned hastily. "I got turned right around." His
departure over the gallery was not unlike a flight.

VII

The memory of Meta Beggs was woven like a bright thread through the
monotonous texture of the days which immediately followed. She was never
entirely out of his thoughts; she