brows. "It fell to Weatherbee to break the news to the daughter, and ten
days later, on the eve of his sailing north to Seattle, that marriage was
hurried through."

There was a silent moment, then Foster said: "Weatherbee loved her, and he
was going to Alaska; it was uncertain when he could return; married, he
might send for her when conditions were fit. And her father's affairs were
a complete wreck; even the annuity stopped at his death, and there wasn't
an acre of her mother's inheritance left. Not a relative to take her in."

"I know; that is why she married Weatherbee." Tisdale set his lips grimly;
he swung around and strode across the floor. "You see, you can't tell me
anything," he said. "I know all about it. Wait. Listen. I am going over
the mountains and look up that land of Weatherbee's, and I shall probably
buy it, but I want you to understand clearly it is only because I hope to
carry his project through. Now go north, Foster; take a new grip on
things; get to work and let your investments alone."

After that, when Foster had gone, Tisdale spent a long interval tramping
the floor of his breezy room. The furrows still divided his brows, his
mouth was set, and a dark color burned and glowed through his tan. But
deeper than his angry solicitude for Foster rankled his resentment against
this woman. Who was she, he asked himself, that she should fix her hold on
level-headed Foster? But he knew her kind. Feversham had called her a
"typical American beauty," but there were many types, and he knew her
kind. She was a brunette, of course, showing a swarthier trace of Mexican
with the Spanish, and she would have a sort of personal magnetism. She
might prove dramatic if roused, but those Spanish-California women were
indolent, and they grew heavy early. Big, handsome, voluptuous; just a
splendid animal without a spark of soul.