e only practical way out would be that I'd have to
marry you--"

"Mine was a business proposition, not a marriage proposal," she
interrupted, coldly angry. "I wonder if somewhere in this world there is
one man who could accept me for a comrade."

"But you are a woman just the same," he began, "and there are certain
conventions, certain decencies--"

She sprang up and stamped her foot.

"Do you know what I'd like to say?" she demanded.

"Yes," he smiled, "you'd like to say, 'Damn petticoats!'"

She nodded her head ruefully.

"That's what I wanted to say, but it sounds different on your lips. It
sounds as though you meant it yourself, and that you meant it because of
me."

"Well, I am going to bed. But do, please, think over my proposition, and
let me know in the morning. There's no use in my discussing it now. You
make me so angry. You are cowardly, you know, and very egotistic. You
are afraid of what other fools will say. No matter how honest your
motives, if others criticized your actions your feelings would be hurt.
And you think more about your own wretched feelings than you do about
mine. And then, being a coward--all men are at heart cowards--you
disguise your cowardice by calling it chivalry. I thank heaven that I
was not born a man. Good-night. Do think it over. And don't be
foolish. What Berande needs is good American hustle. You don't know
what that is. You are a muddler. Besides, you are enervated. I'm fresh
to the climate. Let me be your partner, and you'll see me rattle the dry
bones of the Solomons. Confess, I've rattled yours already."

"I should say so," he answered. "Really, you know, you have. I never
received such a dressing-down in my life. If any one had ever told me
that I'd be a party even to the present situation. . . . Yes, I confess,
you have rattled my dry bones pretty considerably."

"But that is nothing to the rattling they are going to get," she assured
him, as he rose and took her hand. "Good-night. And do, do give me a
rational decision in the morning."

CHAPTER XIII--THE LOGIC OF YOUTH

"I wish I knew whether you are merely headstrong, or whether you really
intend to be a Solomon planter," Sheldon said in the morning, at
breakfast.

"I wish you were more adaptable," Joan retorted. "You have more
preconceived notions than any man I ever met. Why in the name of common
sense, in the name of . . . fair play, can't you get it into your head
t