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 worked out his days to a schedule, he was now patiently allotting time for her recovery. She even figured how he would do it. Two months to forget Tom McNair, two months for a restoration of his old relationship, and two months to courtship! That would take them—one, two, three, four, five, six—to the first of April.

"What on earth are you counting on your fingers?"

"I always count on my fingers. That's what they are for, isn't it?"

"They are for other things too," he said darkly, and glanced at her left hand. Maybe she had been wrong about the six months!

But she was marking time also. During those early days after her return she gained a little perspective on the situation, or thought she did. Thus she was convinced that Tom had been deliberately sent away, and that she would hear from him as soon as he could write. He could not ignore that last night together; he would not want to ignore it.

He loved her, and he knew she loved him; nothing but that mattered. Later on they could plan. Now all she wanted was to nurse the thought of his love and keep it warm, to lie awake in the darkness and recapture the ecstasy of that moment when he had held her in his arms. His strong arms, His brave, reckless arms.

She lived in a secret world of her own, and looked out from it at the environment she had never questioned before. Were they really satisfied, all these people who came and went, rustling in to tea and dinner, stepping out of their handsome motors, well dressed, well fed—too well fed—well mannered.

"I declare, Katherine, the ranch has made you over."

And her mother living her own secret life, as Kay had begun to suspect, smiling the correct smile, saying the correct thing.

"I'm so glad you could come. We have been away so long, and we have missed our friends."

"We, we." Kay had begun to notice that her mother seldom said "I."

It was such feeble living; men who had grown paunchy