it. His eyes smiled as he paraphrased Tempest's accusation of a few weeks back.
"Men say hard things of me, Mrs. Ducane," he said. "But won't you concede me still the possession of a little respect for women and for myself?"
"Oh," said Jennifer, and reddened. "Don't. It—it hurts to to think a man would need to speak in that way—ever."
"I'm sorry," he said instantly. "A man who has been much in rough places forgets sometimes what a delicate instrument a woman is."
He stretched his hands out, dirty bandage and all.
"Look at those," he said. "Fit for a drum or a barrel-organ, perhaps. But for the lute or the harp! No!"
The easy courtesy of his manner belied his words, and he shook his head, smiling. To Jennifer it was the daring of life, the ring of the bold heart and merry that had ever called out her own heart to meet it. She had thought that she answered that call in Ducane, and the knowledge that it never was there was a live pain that would not cease. But this unshaven man, with the smell of wet wool in his stockings and clothes, and of drying mooseskin on his feet, brought her near it again until she felt the hot breath of the world in her face, and the reckless laugh of the world in her eyes.
Dick struck in her a spark that Tempest could not, nor Ducane. For he did not shield her womanhood as Tempest was wont to do, nor offend it as Ducane often did. And he took her out at last to Ducane with the passion of life welling up in her for the things that were done and to do. Ducane looked at her as they swept over the frozen lake where a sunset laid golden bars.
"What was that buck saying to you? " he demanded.
"Nothing in particular," said Jennifer, and reddened at words and tone.
"I won't have you see too much of those fellows," said Ducane, and pulled her close in his arm. "Do you hear me, Jenny?"
"What do you mean?" said Jennifer, and her voice was concentrated.
"Oh, you know well enough," Ducane laughed. "Play
