"
"Is that important? I see what you do. That is enough. Your friend
Mr. Green has carefully brought me the details I didn't know."
Clay flushed. Her clear voice carried an edge of scorn. "You mustn't
judge by appearances. I know you wouldn't be unfair. I had to take
her home and look after her."
"I don't quite see why--unless, of course, you wanted to," the girl
answered, tapping the arm of her chair with impatient finger-tips, eyes
on the clock. "But of course it isn't necessary I should see."
Her cavalier treatment of him did not affect the gentle
imperturbability of the Westerner.
"Because I'm a white man, because she's a little girl who came from my
country and can't hold her own here, because she was sick and chilled
and starving. Do you see now?"
"No, but it doesn't matter. I'm not the keeper of your conscience, Mr.
Lindsay," she countered, with hard lightness.
"You're judging me just the same."
Her eyes attacked him. "Am I?"
"Yes." The level gaze of the man met hers calmly. "What have I done
that you don't like?"
She lost some of her debonair insolence that expressed itself in
indifference.
"I'd ask that if I were you," she cried scornfully. "Can you tell me
that this--friend of yours--is a good girl?"
"I think so. She's been up against it. Whatever she may have done
she's been forced to do."
"Excuses," she murmured.
"If you'd ever known what it was to be starving--"
Her smoldering anger broke into a flame.
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