s imploring eyes
because she was not sure of her own.

She was sure of one thing, however. All the nonsense was out of her
head. To-morrow she would be returning to the regular job. She would
have a page from the Arabian Nights to look upon in the days to come.
She understood, though it twisted her heart dreadfully: she was in the
eyes of this man a plaything, a pretty woman he had met in passing. If
she had saved his life he had in turn saved hers; they were quits. She
did not blame him for his point of view. He had come from the top of the
world, where women were either ornaments or playthings, while she and
hers had always struggled to maintain equilibrium in the middle stratum.
Cutty could give him friendship; but she could not because she was a
woman, young and pretty.

Love him? Well, she would get over it. It might be only the glamour of
the adventure they had shared. Anyhow, she wouldn't die of it. Cutty
hadn't. Of course it hurt; she was a silly little fool, and all that.
Once he was in Montana he would be sending for his Olga. There wasn't
the least doubt in her mind that if ever autocracy returned to power,
he'd be casting aside his American citizenship, his chaps and sombrero,
for the old regalia. Well--truculently to the world at large--why not?

So she avoided Hawksley's gaze, sensing the sustained persistence of it.
But, oh, to be alone, alone, alone!

Cutty washed the patient's hands and face and patched up the cut on
the cheek, interlarding his chatter with trench idioms, banter, jokes.
Underneath, though, he was chuckling. He was the hero of this tale;
he had done all the thrilling stunts, carried limp bodies across fire
escapes in the rain, climbed roofs, eluded newspaper reporters, fought
with his bare fists, rescued the girl.... All with one foot in the
grave! Fifty-two, gray haired--with a prospect of rheumatism on the
morrow--and putting it over like a debonair movie idol!

Hawksley met these pleasantries halfway by grousing about being babied
when there was nothing the matter with him but his head, his body, and
his legs.

Why didn't she look at him? What was the meaning of this persistent
avoidance? She must have forgiven last night. She was too much of a
thoroughbred to harbour ill feeling over that. Why didn't she look at
him?

The telephone called Cutty from the room.

Kitty went into the dining room for an extra pair of salt cellars and
delayed her return until she heard Cutty comi