a gentleman," she said, in a tone intended to be
crushing.

"And the morals of a coyote," Dave returned, hotly.

"O-o-o-h," said Mrs. Hardy, in a low, shocked cry. That Elden should
speak of Conward with such disdain seemed to her little less than
sacrilege. Then, gathering herself together with some dignity, "If you
cannot speak respectfully of Mr. Conward you will please leave the
house. I shall not forbid you to see Irene; I know that would be
useless. But please do not trouble me with your presence."

When Dave had gone Mrs. Hardy, very angry with him, and almost equally
angry with herself owing to a vague conviction that she had had if
anything the worse of the interview, hurried to the telephone. She
rang up Conward's number.

"Oh, Mr. Conward," she said. "You know who is speaking? Yes. You
must come up to-night. I do want to talk with you. I--I've been
insulted--in my own house. By that--that Elden. It's all very
terrible. I can't tell you over the telephone."

Conward called early in the evening. Irene met him at the door. He
greeted her even more cordially than usual, dropping into that soft,
confidential note which he had found so potent in capturing such
affections as his heart, in a somewhat varied experience, had desired.
But there was no time for conversation. Mrs. Hardy had heard the bell,
and bustled into the room. She had not yet recovered from her
agitation, and made no effort to conceal it.

"Come into my sitting-room, Mr. Conward. I am so glad you have come.
Really, I am so upset. It is such a comfort to have some one you can
depend on--some one whose advice one can seek, on occasions like this.
I never thought--"

Mrs. Hardy had been fingering her handkerchief, which she now pressed
to her eyes. Conward laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. "There,
there," he said. "You must control yourself. Tell me. It will
relieve you, and perhaps I can help."

"Oh, I'm sure you can," she returned. "It's all over Irene and
that--that--I _will_ say it--that cow _puncher_. To think it would
have come to this! Mr. Conward, you are not a mother, so you can't
understand. Ungrateful girl! But I blame _him_. And the Doctor. I
never wanted him to come west. It was that fool trip, in that fool
motor--"

Conward smiled to himself over her unaccustomed violence. Mrs. Hardy
must be deeply moved when she forgot to be correct. He had readily
surmised the occasion of her distress.