He looked at me, as solemn as a judge.
"You are still a bundle of contradictions to me," was all he ventured to say.
"Well, I rather surprise myself now and then," I acknowledged, a little chilled by that neutral-tinted description of myself. For every woman has a hunger to be something positive, even though she can't be something superlative. And I couldn't get away from the impression that we were both beating about the bush, that we were merely fencing when time was too precious to be wasted on words.
That Hero-Man of mine must have felt somewhat the same, for he suddenly turned to me and asked me a question which sent a Mississippi of nettle-rash right down from the collar of Copperhead Kate's black waist to the toe in the stolen suede slipper which I was keeping pressed against the black club-bag. He spoke quietly enough, but it seemed to come like a thunder-clap.
"Did you make a good haul to-night?"
I could feel the color go slowly up to the roots of my hair as I sat staring at him.
"What do you mean by that?" I somewhat weakly inquired.
"Precisely what I said," was his answer, and his
