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 thoughts surged in him; then he would scrape the mud off his feet outside and, limping in, could find no words for them. He would hang up his hat, kiss her, and then, indignant at his own stupidity, stand around awkwardly, watching her.

Only once did he refer to the matter of their quarrel over Clare. She was mending by the fire in the living room, and he had been apparently busy over some reports from the Department of Agriculture. But she knew he was not reading.

"D'you mind if I tell you about that girl, Kay?"

"What girl?"

"Now what's the use of that? You know and I know. I never wanted to marry her, and she knew it."

She bent lower over her mefding.

"Do we have to talk about it?"

"I do."

"You were engaged to her, you said."

"That's what I want to tell you about."

And he did tell her, sitting there by the fire, his hands dropped between his knees. His threatened arrest, his determination to go East with the cattle, his appeal to Clare and the condition she had imposed. It was then that she looked up.

"And she was found out?"

"She says she was. I don't believe it myself. Either that, or she took mighty good care to be found out. She had plenty of time to get back."

But woman-like, she had seized on one part of the story and ignored the rest.

"And on this long ride with her, did you—make love to her, Tom?"

"Not what you think," he told her. "I've lived the way a man does live, I reckon, but Clare's got no call on me. I'll swear it, if you like."

Later on she was to wonder if there had been a motive behind that frankness of his, but she was warmed and comforted that night. When, after his old manner, he came over and sitting on the floor, put his head against her knee, she