"And, having no desire to rub it in, I'll let you draw your own
conclusions." Mr. Orne had the door open; he dodged out and slammed the
door shut.

It was promptly opened--so promptly that Mr. Britt was fairly caught at
what he was about. He was standing up, shaking both fists at the door
and cursing roundly. Vona was gazing at him in alarm.

"I was waiting in the corridor, sir, till you--till your business--till
Mr. Orne went away," she stammered.

"Come in!" muttered Britt, even more disconcerted than the girl.

Then he wished that he had told her to go away. He realized that he was
in no mood or condition to woo; the cabbage had tortured him, but this
new sort of indigestion in the very soul of him had left him without
poise or courage.

He slumped down in his chair and waved a limp hand in invitation for her
to take a seat near him. But she merely came and stood in the middle of
the room and surveyed him with an uncompromising air of business. From
the velvet toque, with just a suggestion of a coquettish cant on her
brown curls, down her healthily round cheeks, a bit flushed, above the
fur neckpiece that clasped her throat, Britt's fervent eyes strayed. And
some of the words of the Prophet's singsong monotone echoed in the empty
chambers of Britt's consciousness, "'Thou hast dove's eyes within thy
locks--thy lips are like a thread of scarlet.'"

But she was aloof. She held herself rigidly erect. Her eyes were coldly
inquiring. Those lips were set tightly. Mr. Britt had just been reaching