She, however, only lowered her eyes, and with the same tired expression
said: "No matter now. Let us talk of something nearer. That was two
months ago. And so you have charge of this hotel! I like it so much. I
mean the place itself. I fancy I could live here forever. It is so far
away and restful. I am so sick of towns and cities, and people. And this
little grove is so secluded. If one had merely a little cottage here,
one might be so happy."

What did she mean?--what did she expect?--what did she think of doing?
She must be got rid of before Kelly's arrival, and yet he found himself
wavering under her potent and yet scarcely exerted influence. The
desperation of weakness is apt to be more brutal than the determination
of strength. He remembered why he had come upstairs, and blurted out:
"But you can't stay here. The rules are very stringent in regard to--to
strangers like yourself. It will be known who you really are and what
people say of you. Even your divorce will tell against you. It's all
wrong, I know--but what can I do? I didn't make the rules. I am only a
servant of the landlord, and must carry them out."

She leaned back against the sofa and laughed silently. But she presently
recovered herself, although with the same expression of fatigue. "Don't
be alarmed, my poor Jim! If you mean your friend, Mr. Woodridge, I
know him. It was he, himself, who suggested my coming here. And
don't misunderstand him--nor me either. He's only a good friend of
Sylvester's; they had some speculation together. He's coming here to see
me after Louis arrives. He's waiting in San Francisco for his wife and
daughter, who come on the same steamer. So you see you won't get into
trouble on my account. Don't look so scared, my dear boy."

"Does he know that you knew me?" said Reddy, with a white face.