She passed on to the one teller's window, made a deposit, took a packet of papers from her skirt pocket and went into the tiny customers' room. Soon a step sounded on the threshold of the room and she looked up to face Philip Rowe as he removed his hat. His black hair glistened, his mohair suit was sleek, his black eyes glittered; his white skin seemed to shine, with smoothness, with slipperiness.
"Miss Foraker," he said and bowed, "may I come in?"
He did not wait for a reply but entered, drawing the door closed behind him and settled into the chair on the other side of the small table.
"I was going to call on you today," he said. "Then I heard about the accident last night and thought you might not have time. But since you are in town we may as well talk."
A pause. Her silence challenged him. He moistened his lips, picking at the blotter, eyes on his uneasy fingers.
"Perhaps I, being a stranger, am better able to judge your situation than you are—because I have perspective. I have seen people in similar circumstances, but I have never seen any one so hard pressed by public sentiment as you are—through no fault of your own, probably," with suavity.
"One cannot help admiring your pluck, but did you ever stop to consider that the line which divides pluck from—shall we say foolhardiness?—is not very distinct? It is courageous to fight not only your neighbors, but the laws of the state and the financial depression, but is it wise, Miss Foraker? Be honest with yourself. Do you hope to beat the game?"
He leaned forward, eyes on her face, steady and
