eyes
clear with the surprise of a clean conscience.

"Wouldn't a woman friend do as well?" Ted was trying to hold himself
in check, but something in his words or his tone made Sheila stare, and
he repeated, with a touch of asperity, "Wouldn't a woman friend do as
well?"

"The only woman friend I have whom I really care for is Charlotte--and
she won't be here until April."

"Then you'd better wait for her. You'd better wait for her--and see
less of Burnett."

"What do you mean?" she asked. And now her puzzled eyes grew
steel-cold with intuitive resentment.

"I mean that you'll get yourself talked about if you go on as you're
doing at present. A married woman can't be so much with a man not her
husband _without_ being talked about."

"That is absurd!" she retorted, and her voice was as cold as her eyes;
it put miles between them. "Peter has always been my friend. He's
been like one of my family to me all my life. He's more than ever like
a relative to me now that all my own people are dead. It's absurd to
suggest that our friendship could be so misinterpreted. It's _low_ to
think of such a thing!"

"Low or not, it's _wise_ to think of such things. You'll get yourself
talked about if I let you. But I'm your natural protector, and I
_won't_ let you. I forbid you to have Burnett here as you've been
doing. _I forbid you_!"

"I am to tell him that?" she inquired scornfully.

"You're to tell him nothing. He'll soon stop coming if he's not asked.
The fact is, I don't believe he's wanted to come so often. You're the
one to blame, Sheila. You've invited him--you've sent for him when he
hasn't come of his own accord." And then, as they faced each other in
their unaccustomed hostility, Ted added, with a final flare of wrath,
"_You've run after him--that's what you've done_!"

As if he had struck her, Sheila's face went livid, then scarlet. She
opened her lips to answer, but no sound came. So, for an instant, they
looked at each other, silent, motionless, transfixed by this horror
that had risen between them, this horror of anger--almost of hate.
Then Ted took a step toward her; already he was contrite: "I didn't
mean that. I lost my temper and went too far. Forgive me, Sheila!"

But she did not say that she forgave him. She only said: "Never speak
to me of this again--never in all our lives!" And then she turned from
him and walked out of the room, leaving him to feel himself far more at
fault