" He held out his hand.
"'God gave us our relations,'" he quoted, "'but thank God, we can
choose our friends.' And I'll be a good friend to you, Shirley
Sumner, until I have earned the right to be something more. Won't you
shake hands with me? Remember, this fight to-day is only the first
skirmish in a war to the finish--and I am leading a forlorn hope. If
I lose--well, this will be good-bye."
"I hate you," she answered drearily. "All our fine friendship--
smashed--and you growing stupidly sentimental. I didn't think it of
you. Please go away. You are distressing me."
He smiled at her tenderly, forgivingly, wistfully, but she did not
see it. "Then it is really good-by," he murmured with mock
dolorousness.
She nodded her bowed head. "Yes," she whispered. "After all, I have
some pride, you know. You mustn't presume to be the butterfly
preaching contentment to the toad in the dust."
"As you will it, Shirley." He turned away. "I'll send your axe back
with the first trainload of logs from my camp, Colonel," he called to
Pennington.
Once more he strode away into the timber. Shirley watched him pass
out of her life, and gloried in what she conceived to be his agony,
for she had both temper and spirit, and Bryce Cardigan calmly,
blunderingly, rather stupidly (she thought) had presumed flagrantly
on brief acquaintance.
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