a slight.

"Never force a woman," he confided to Larry at that juncture, "that
is, if she is independent."

"What you mean, independent?" Larry knew what he meant very well; knew
the full significance of it. He fretted at it every time his desires
clashed with Mary-Clare's. If he, not she, owned the yellow house; if
she were obliged to take what he chose to give her, how different
their lives might have been!

Larry was thinking of all this as he made his way to the mines after
denying that he had taken the letters. Those letters lay snugly hid
under his shirt--he had a use for them. He could feel them as he
walked along; they seemed to be feeding a fire that was slowly
igniting.

Larry was going now to Maclin with all barriers removed. His
suspicious mind had accepted the coarsest interpretation of
Mary-Clare's declaration of independence. Maclin's hints were, to him,
established facts. There could be but one possible explanation for her
act after long, dull years of acceptance.

"Well," Larry puffed and panted, "there is always a way to get the
upper hand of a woman and, I reckon, Maclin, when he's free to speak
out, can catch a fool woman and a sneaking man, who is on no fair
business, unless I miss _my_ guess." Larry grunted the words out and
stumbled along. "First and last," he went on, "there's just two ways
to deal with women. Break 'em or let them break themselves."

Larry's idea now was to let Mary-Clare break herself with the Forest
as audience. He wasn't going to do anything. No, not he! Living
outside his home would set tongues wagging. All right, let Mary-Clare
stop their wagging.

There was always, with Larry, this feeling of hot impotence when he
retreated from Mary-Clare. For so vital and high-strung a woman,
Mary-Clare could at critical moments be absolutely negative, to all
appearances. Where another might show weakness or violence, she seemed
to close all the windows and doors of her being, leaving her attacker
in the outer darkness with nothing to strike at; no ear to assail. It
was maddening to one of Larry's type.

So had Mary-Clare just now done. After asking him about the letters,
she had withdrawn, but in the isolation where Larry was left he could
almost hear the terrific truths he guiltily knew he deserved, hurled
at him, but which his wife did not utter. Well, two could play at her
game.

And in this mood he reached Maclin; accepted a cigar and stretched his
feet toward the fire