Helen smiled. "My work is still waiting. All this is interesting, but there's no use talking any more. I'm sure."
She moved toward the door with the poise and finality that sent a wave of anger through Rowe.
"Miss Foraker—"
"Please! Please, don't try to talk or argue. I don't like your half threats, Mr. Rowe. You don't frighten me—but it is unpleasant. As far as your coming here, I have told you that it is useless. I will not sell."
There was challenge in her gesture as she opened the screen door. He could not know that her legs were unsteady, her heart racing. He moved toward the step, hat in his hands, and stood beside her.
"I will leave you now," he said. "But I am coming again. Had your work been a little less—er—pressing, I might have told you more of what you face; but you're not interested anyhow, even though your back is to the wall."
He went out and did not look back.
The girl moved to the center of the room and stood there, hands at her sides, shoulders a bit slack, looking up at her father's picture above the bowl of wild roses on the mantel.
"Father?" weakly. "Father, I'm frightened! And he said I couldn't keep on and almost makes me—believe it!"
