and what the tinker had done
with himself. She had a vague, far-away feeling that she ought to be
disturbed over something--her complete isolation with a strange
companion on a night like this; but the physical contentment, the
reaction from bodily torture, drugged her sensibilities. She closed
her eyes lazily again and listened to the wind howling outside with
the never-ceasing accompaniment of beating rain. She was content to
revel in that feeling of luxury that only the snugly housed can know.

A sound in the room roused her. She opened her eyes as lazily as she
had closed them, expecting to find the tinker there replenishing the
fire; instead--She sat up with a jerk, speechless, rubbing her eyes
with two excited fists, intent on proving the unreality of what she
had seen; but when she looked again there it was--the clean-cut
figure of a man immaculate in white summer flannels.

The blood rushed to Patsy's face; mortification, dread, sank into her
very soul; the drug of physical contentment had lost its power. For
the first time in her life she was dominated by the dictates of
convention. She cursed her irresponsible love of vagabondage along
with her freedom of speech and manner and her lack of conservative
judgment. These had played her false and shamed her womanhood.

The Patsys of this world are not given to trading on their charm or
powers of attraction to win men to them--it is against their creed of
true womanhood. Moreover, a man counts no more than a woman in their
sum total of daily pleasure, and when they choose a comrade it is for
human qualities, not sexualities. And because of this, this
particular Patsy felt the more intensely the humiliation and
challenge of the moment. She hated herself; she hated the man,
whoever he might be; she hated the tinker for his share in it all.

Anger loosened her tongue at last. "Who, in the name of Saint
Bridget, are ye?" she demanded.

And the man in white flannels threw back his head and laughed.

VIII

WHEN TWO WERE NOT COMPANY

The laughter would have proved contagious to any except one in
Patsy's humor; and, as laughing alone is sorry business, the man soon
sobered and looked over at Patsy with the merriment lingering only in
his eyes.

"By Willie Shakespeare, it's the duke's daughter in truth!"

The words made little impression on her; it was the laugh and voice
that puzzled her; they were unmistakably the tinker's. But there was
nothing famil