that way," she cried, saucily. "But I did not come to see you, Mr. Duke.
I came to see Harlan. Has he got home yet?"

She swung sideways on her horse and nursed her slender ankle across her
knee. It was plain that she had expected this reception, and knew how to
meet it. She gazed at him serenely from big, gray eyes. She smiled and
held her head a little to one side, her nose tiptilted a bit, giving her
an aggravatingly teasing expression.

"I tell you he's not here, and he won't be here."

"Oh yes, he will. For"--she smiled more broadly, and there was malice in
her eyes--"I sent word to him to come, and he's coming."

"You sent word to him, you red-headed Irish cat? What do you mean?"

The lord of Fort Canibas strode close to her, passion on his face.
Presson could see that this was no suddenly evoked quarrel between the
two. It was hostility reawakened.

"I mean that I'm looking out for the interests of Harlan when those at
home are plotting against him. I hear the news. I listen to news for
him, when he's away in the big woods. And I'm not going to let you send
him off down to any old prison of a legislature, where he'll be spoiled
for his friends up here. And he doesn't want to go. And he'll be here,
Mr. Duke, to see that you don't trade him off into your politics."

She delivered her little speech resolutely, and gave him back his
blistering gaze without winking.