"I reckon she can take care of herthelf," he said, extending his hand to
Low. "I'm off. But if I'm wanted SHE'LL know where to find me." Low took
the proffered hand, but neither of the two men looked at Teresa. The
reserve of antagonism once broken, a few words of caution, advice, and
encouragement passed between them, in apparent obliviousness of her
presence or her personal responsibility. As Curson at last nodded
a farewell to her, Low insisted upon accompanying him as far as the
horses, and in another moment she was again alone.

She had saved a quarrel between them at the sacrifice of herself, for
her vanity was still keen enough to feel that this exhibition of her
old weakness had degraded her in their eyes, and, worse, had lost the
respect her late restraint had won from Low. They had treated her like a
child or a crazy woman, perhaps even now were exchanging criticisms
upon her--perhaps pitying her! Yet she had prevented a quarrel, a fight;
possibly the death of either one or the other of these men who despised
her, for none better knew than she the trivial beginning and desperate
end of these encounters. Would they--would Low ever realize it, and
forgive her? Her small, dark hands went up to her eyes and she sank
upon the ground. She looked through tear-veiled lashes upon the mute and
giant witnesses of her deceit and passion, and tried to draw, from their
immovable calm, strength and consolation as before. But even they seemed
to stand apart, reserved and forbidding.

When Low returned she hoped to gather from his eyes and manner what
had passed between him and her former lover. But beyond a mere gentle
abstraction at times he retained his usual calm. She was at last forced
to allude to it herself with simulated recklessness.