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 went abroad rather sooner than he had imagined he would at the time he had given his rash promise to Baron Horst von Götz-Wrede.

And it was Bertha Wedekind's fault.

About a week after the German's departure, thinking there was now a clear field and no favors, he decided to ask her once more to be his wife. She had been nice to him the last few days and, being in love and therefore self-centered, there was but one construction he could put on her shifting mood—she was beginning to like him better; rather, she was drifting back into that chummy, simple sympathy, not unmixed by tenderness, that had been between them the year before on the Killicott ranch, before she had had her head turned by the Prussian officers whom she had met at her uncle's house in Berlin.

It was on a Saturday night, and the Country Club was giving its weekly hop. More than one couple, tired of dancing, had sought the seclusion of the great, sweeping veranda that framed the Club building on all sides to catch the breeze that boomed down from far Hayden Lake, laden with the sweetness of wood flowers and the tang of wet pine.

"Let's go out. I want to talk to you," said Tom, and he was so masterful that Bertha took his arm and went without a word.

She sat down on a rocker, and he remained