appearance of waiting with a pronounced and punctilious courtesy for
further words from her.

She made no answer, merely continued to look at him, but he, apparently
unmindful and indifferent to that gaze, lifted his book from the table
beside him and, still standing, because she did so, began to read.

For a moment or two she seemed dazed and then, with trembling fingers,
she gathered up her jewels and placed them in the little black bag.

This task accomplished, she started with all the scornful grace, the
indifferent languor of a Spanish duchess to sweep from the room, but in
passing him and noting him still absorbed in his book, her hot blood
flushed her cheek, her eyes glittered with angry fire. Her slight pause
caused him to look up and, seeing the anger on her face, he smiled
amusedly, insufferably. The next second she sprang at him like a cat and
slapped him across his insolently smiling face, and then flung Spanish
oaths at him with such force and heat that they seemed to splutter in
falling upon the chill of the air. Then she flashed from the room.

But the maddening smile still lingered on his lips as he bent to pick up
the book her blow had sent flying to the floor. And, still smiling, he
stood for a moment caressing the white dents her fingers had left on his
cheek. Finally he replenished the fire, filled and lighted his pipe and,
drawing his chair near to the hearth, sat, thinking, thinking, the
greater part of the night.

Pearl was out early the next morning, and walked halfway down the hill.
When she returned to the cabin she found Seagreave sitting in his chair
by the hearth as if he had not moved during the night; his haggard gaze