tood. Yet there were times when she
would almost have welcomed an outburst, a storm, anything rather than
that deadly chill, enduring day after day. He seldom spoke to her now
except of most matter-of-fact things. He played his part like a
gentleman before others, but alone with her he withdrew into his shell.

Stella was sitting back in the shadow, still studying him, measuring him
in spite of herself by the Monohan yardstick. There wasn't much basis
for comparison. It wasn't a question of comparison; the two men stood
apart, distinctive, in every attribute. The qualities in Fyfe that she
understood and appreciated, she beheld glorified in Monohan. Yet it was
not, after all, a question of qualities. It was something more subtle,
something of the heart which defied logical analysis.

Fyfe had never been able to set her pulse dancing. She had never craved
physical nearness to him, so that she ached with the poignancy of that
craving. She had been passively contented with him, that was all. And
Monohan had swept across her horizon like a flame. Why couldn't Jack
Fyfe have inspired in her that headlong sort of passion? She smiled
hopelessly. The tears were very close to her eyes. She loved Monohan;
Monohan loved her. Fyfe loved her in his deliberate, repressed fashion
and possessed her, according to the matrimonial design. And although now
his possession was a hollow mockery, he would never give her up--not to
Walter Monohan. She had that fatalistic conviction.

How would it end in the long run?

She leaned forward to speak. Words quivered on her lips. But as she
struggled to shape them to utterance, the blast of a boat whistle came
screaming up from the water, near and shrill and imperative.

Fyfe came out of his chair like a shot. He landed poised on his feet,
lips drawn apart, hands clenched. He held that pose for an instant, then
relaxed, his breath coming with a quick sigh.

Stella stared at him. Nerves! She knew the symptoms too well. Nerves at
terrible tension in that big, splendid body. A slight quiver seemed to
run over him. Then he was erect and calmly himself again, standing in a
listening attitude.

"That's the _Panther_?" he said. "Pulling in to the _Waterbug's_
landing. Did I startle you when I bounced up like a cougar, Stella?" he
asked, with a wry smile. "I guess I was half asleep. That whistle jolted
me."

Stella glanced out the shaded window.

"Some one's coming up from the float with a lantern,