hen she had finished. He was not seeking to implicate her--she
felt certain of that. He merely wanted to be quite sure of his ground.

Then he got up and began dressing, deliberately and quietly. It did not
occur to her that he was not putting on the clothes he usually wore on
Sunday, but this deviation from a rule would not have seemed significant
to her even if she had noticed it. She closed her eyes and pondered. In
Sylvia's world men did not calmly ignore injury. They became violent, even
when violence could not possibly mend matters. Had Harboro decided to
accept the inevitable, the irremediable, without a word? Her first
thought, last night, had been that she would probably lose Harboro, too,
together with her peace of mind. He would rush madly at Fectnor, and he
would be killed. Was he the sort of man who would place discretion first
and pocket an insult?

Oddly, the fear that he would attack Fectnor changed to a fear that he did
not intend to do so. She could not bear to think of the man she loved as
the sort of man who will not fight, given such provocation as Harboro
had.

She opened her eyes to look at him, to measure him anew. But he was no
longer in the room.

Then her fear for him returned with redoubled force. Quiet men were
sometimes the most desperate, the most unswerving, she realized. Perhaps
he had gone even now to find Fectnor.

The thought terrified her. She sprang from the bed and began dressing with
feverish haste. She would overtake him and plead with him not to go. If
necessary, she would tell him other things about herself--about the
reasons she had given Fectnor, long ago, to believe that she was not a
woman to be respected. Harboro would not forgive her, in that event. He
would leave her. But he would not go to his death. It seemed to her quite
clear that the only unforgivable sin she could commit would be to permit
Harboro to die for her sake.

She hurried down into the dining-room. Ah, Harboro was there! And again
she was puzzled by his placidity. He was standing at a window, with his
back to her, his hands clasped behind him. He turned when he heard her.
"It promises to be another warm day," he said pleasantly. Then he turned
and looked out through the kitchen door as if hinting to Antonia that
breakfast might now be served.

He ate his grapes and poached eggs and drank his coffee in silence. He
seemed unaware that Sylvia was regarding him with troubled eyes.

When he arose from