ed that in Bert Morrison's
presence he felt a more frank comradeship than in hers. And it was
preposterous that he should not know that Bert might be won for the
winning. And meantime. . . .

Another winter wore away; another spring came rushing from the mountain
passes; another summer was upon them, and still Irene Hardy had not
surrendered. A thousand times she told herself it was impossible, with
her mother to think of-- And always she ended in indignation over her
treatment of Dave. It was outrageous to keep him waiting. And
somewhere back of her self-indignation flitted the form--the now
seductive form--of Bert Morrison.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Irene Hardy chose to be frank with herself over the situation. She had
not doubted the sincerity of her attachment for Dave Elden; but, had
she experienced such a doubt, the entry of Bert Morrison into the drama
would have forever removed it. Indeed, now that she knew that Dave's
suit would be regarded with favour by another woman--an accomplished,
clever, experienced woman,--she was very much more eager to monopolize
it to herself. And in fairness she admitted that things could not
continue as they were. The menace of Bert Morrison was static, so to
speak. With fine self-abnegation Bert was standing aside. But how
long would she continue to stand aside? Irene was old enough to know
that the ramparts of friendship are a poor defence when the artillery
of passion is brought to bear; indeed, it is usually through those very
ramparts that the assault is effected. And if she continued to trifle
with Dave Elden--

Yes, _trifle_. She would be frank. She would not spare herself. She
had been trifling with him. Rather than accept the terms which her own
attitude had made necessary--rather than tell him with her lips what
she felt in her heart--she had trifled away all these months, almost
these years. . . . She would lay her false pride aside. In the purity
of her womanhood, which he could not misunderstand, she would divest
herself of all convention and tell him frankly that--that--

She was not sure what she would tell, or how she would tell it. She
was sure only that she would make him know. At the very next
opportunity. . . .

It came on a fine summer's evening in late July, while Dave and Irene
drifted in his car over the rich ripening prairies. Everywhere were
fields of dark green wheat, already beginning to glimmer with the gold
of harvest; eve