his love resented. "You dragged your husband's love through the mire of your own—"
The girl stepped back, panting a little; "What is it to you?" she flashed out. "What call have you to judge me? Who has asked for your opinion? Why should you care, one way or the other, what I have done?"
The fire suddenly went out of Dick's face, leaving it the color of grey ashes, and slowly he folded his arms and stood looking down at her gravely. His lips were tight. "That is the unfortunate part about it," he said quietly; "I do care. I care desperately." And then turning away from her he went back through the screen of ironwoods and on out through his garden and away up the road toward the mountain tops.
For the first mile or so he neither saw nor heard nor chose his way, but merely followed the curves of the road mechanically, as an engine follows its rails and with no more feeling nor observation than has the engine. The soul of him seemed to be indrawn in uncanny contemplation of itself, leaving the body to its own devices and unattended. Eventually a trail cut across the road and led into the forest, and his feet, seemingly of their own volition, turned into it and followed on through the dense wood. On and on he followed the little trail, brushing aside swaying jungle vines which swung in his way, or the bending foliage of ti plants along the
