That’s really our choice now, defy—or futility. It was not a difficult affair. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum. McClintock liked it. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. Her whole conduct and tone had been modest and ladylike. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. There sprang from that a vague hope that perhaps she might extort a capitulation from her father by a threat to seek that position, and then with overwhelming clearness it came to her that whatever happened she would never be able to tell her father about her debt.
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