"Oh, if you had! What should I have done? I couldn't stand it any
longer, Guthrie. It is four whole months--since--though it
seems like yesterday--"

"And how are you?" he broke in, taking a fresh grip of the sword, as it
were.

He held her off from him, glancing at her shoulder, her skirt--
anything but her eyes, which were HER sword, two-edged and deadly.

"Oh, don't look at me!" she exclaimed, shrinking. "I hate myself in
this horrible gown--I feel so mean and hypocritical--though I do
mourn for him, Guthrie. You must not think I feel happy because he is
dead--no, indeed; I wish I could! But one must conform to a certain
extent, mustn't one? And every respect that I can possibly show to his
memory--especially after the way he has treated me! I suppose you
heard--" "What?" Guthrie had heard, but asked the question to fill
time.

"Five thousand a year," said she, "at my absolute and entire disposal,
with no restriction or condition of any sort or kind."

She made the announcement in a level tone, and without a smile, but he
detected the triumph and satisfaction underneath; and, feeling much the
stronger for it, he observed gravely that the dead man was a good man.
"And I always knew it, Francie, worse luck!"

"Oh, so did I! Far--far too good for the likes of me. But--well, we
need not talk about that now. We couldn't help ourselves, could we? And