"That he carried me home on his shoulders from the bridge six weeks and
three days ago, at three o'clock in the morning," interjected Ingolby
with a quizzical smile.

"Why did you omit Madame Bulteel and myself when you mentioned those who
showed their--friendship?" she asked, hesitating at the last word.
"Haven't we done our part?"

"I was talking of men," he answered. "One knows what women do. They may
leave you in the bright days, not in the dark days. On the majority of
them you couldn't rely in prosperity, but in misfortune you couldn't do
anything else. They are there with you. They're made that way. The
best life can give you in misfortune is a woman. It's the great
beginning-of-the-world thing in them. Men can't stand prosperity, but
women can stand misfortune. Why, if Jim and Osterhaut and Jowett and all
the men of Lebanon and Manitou had deserted me, I shouldn't have been
surprised; but I'd have had to recast my philosophy if Fleda Druse had
turned her bonny brown head away."

It was evident he was making an effort to conquer emotions which were
rising in him; that he was playing on the surface to prevent his deep
feelings from breaking forth. "Instead of which," he added jubilantly,
"here I am, in the nicest room in the world, in a fine bed with springs
like an antelope's heels."

He laughed, and hunched his back into the mattress. It was the laugh of
the mocker, but he was mocking himself. She did not misunderstand. It
was a nice room, as he said. He had never seen it with his eyes, but if
he had seen it he would have realized how like herself it was--adorably