Paul ruffled like an angry gobbler. His eyes took on an ugly gleam, his
jaw stuck out, his expression incarnated Teutonic obstinacy. "Oh, she'll
have to be fixed. Luckily it doesn't take much to buy these savage
women; their feelings are all on the surface. I'll give her the house,
furniture, and a hundred dollars cash. That should make up for the loss
of----"

"----a husband?" Bachelder's face darkened. Throughout the conversation
he had worn an air of suppression, as though holding, by an effort,
something back. Now he straightened with a movement that was analogous
to the flexure of a coiled spring. His lips opened, closed again, and he
went on with his quiet questioning. "For a husband, yes. They are easy
stock to come by. But not for the child of her labor. Supposing she
refuses?"

Paul's eyes glinted under his frown. "Then the Jefe-Politico earns the
hundred dollars and the law gives her to me."

The spring uncoiled. "Never! She died a month ago of yellow fever."

Under Teuton phlegm lies an hysteria that rivals that of the Latin
races. Paul's flame died to ashes and he burst out sobbing, throwing his
hands up and out with ungainly gestures. Looking down upon his awkward
grief, Bachelder half regretted the just anger that caused him to slip
the news like a lightning bolt; he would have felt sorrier but that he
perceived Paul's sorrow rooted in the same colossal egotism that would
have sacrificed the mother on the altars of its vast conceit. He knew
that Paul was grieving for himself, for lost sensations of pride, love
and pleasure that he could never experience again. When the ludicrous
travesty had partly spent itself, he stemmed the tide with a question.

"If you don't care to see Andrea, I can make the settlements you hinted
at."

Paul glanced up, stupidly resentful, through his tears. "The child is
dead. That is all off."

"You will do nothing for her?" As much to prop an opinion of human
nature that was already too low for comfort as in Andrea's interest,
Bachelder asked the question.

"She has the house furnishings," Paul sullenly answered. "That leaves
her a sight better off than she was before she knew me."

Rising, the artist walked over to the window. "The river is rising," he
said, when he could trust himself to speak. "Another foot, and away goes
the bridge. When do you go to the mine?"

"Tomorrow."

"Mrs. Steiner goes with you?"

"No, too wet."

Bachelder hesitated. "I'd offer you my