took Dave to one side privately and told him that that wasn't the way to
hold Flush of Gold--that he must humour her and gentle her if he wanted
to keep her.

"There is no discussion in my mind but that Flush of Gold was frightened.
She was a savage herself in her treatment of men, while men had always
treated her as a soft and tender and too utterly-utter something that
must not be hurt. She didn't know what harshness was . . . until Dave
Walsh, standing his six feet four, a big bull, gripped her and pawed her
and assured her that she was his until death, and then some. And
besides, in Dawson, that winter, was a music-player--one of those
macaroni-eating, greasy-tenor-Eye-talian-dago propositions--and Flush of
Gold lost her heart to him. Maybe it was only fascination--I don't know.
Sometimes it seems to me that she really did love Dave Walsh. Perhaps it
was because he had frightened her with that even-unto-death, rise-from-
the-grave stunt of his that she in the end inclined to the dago music-
player. But it is all guesswork, and the facts are, sufficient. He
wasn't a dago; he was a Russian count--this was straight; and he wasn't a
professional piano-player or anything of the sort. He played the violin
and the piano, and he sang--sang well--but it was for his own pleasure
and for the pleasure of those he sang for. He had money, too--and right
here let me say that Flush of Gold never cared a rap for money. She was
fickle, but she was never sordid.

"But to be getting along. She was plighted to Dave, and Dave was coming
up on the first steamboat to get her--that was the summer of '98, and the
first steamboat was to be expected the middle of June. And Flush of Gold
was afraid to throw Dave down and face him afterwards. It was all
planned suddenly. The Russian music-player, the Count, was her obedient
slave. She planned it, I know. I learned as much from old Victor