tempting curve of her lips as she smiled—tempting to distraction. Her hand was on the knob, the door was opening. He lurched forward, all assurance and desire—
She put up her hand quickly and laughed brittily.
"Marcia!" There was determination with the pleading in that word.
"No, Phil—tonight, I only—admire you—just that, Phil Rowe. No more—tonight—"
The door closed between them.
Out in the men's shanty in Foraker's Folly a man lay flat on his back, staring up into the darkness.
John Taylor had been wrong so many times. He had been wrong in everything these last weeks—from saw logs to Marcia Murray! He stirred restlessly. He had thought he understood women, as he had thought he understood himself; had believed that Marcia was sweet and kind and gentle. Today he had seen her claws, had felt them tearing at his pride. He had humbled himself before her because he had been wrong and had believed it the honorable way—but his mistake had been two-fold. He had loved her, but love had not brought her into his arms. The impelling influence was the hope of possessions, the lure of his father's fortune, not the call of his own young heart.
"Mistakes! Mistakes!" His lips formed the soundless words. Well, there would be no more mistakes he promised himself, and stirred again. He was free from clouded thinking, his eyes were open. He had been deceived by his own inconsequential self, by life, by a girl, but from now on—
Of such is the resilient assurance of youth!
