"It's Mr. Mac. He's got tuberculosis, and they are taking him out to the coast for a year. They want me to go along."
Dan's face hardened.
"So it's Mac Clarke still?" he asked bitterly.
His tone stung Nance to the quick, and she wheeled on him indignantly.
"See here, Dan! I've got to put you straight on a thing or two. Where can we go to have this business out?"
He led her across the hall to his own small office and closed the door.
"I'm going to tell you something," she said, facing him with blazing eyes, "and I don't care a hang whether you believe it or not. I never was in love with Mac Clarke. From the day you left this factory I never saw or wrote to him until he was brought to the hospital last July, and I was put on the case. I didn't have anything more to do with him than I did with you. I guess you know how much that was!"
"What about now? Are you going west with him?"
Dan confronted her with the same stern inquiry in his eyes that had shone there the day they parted, in this very place, five years ago.
"I don't know whether I am or not!" cried Nance, firing up. "They've done everything for me, the Clarkes have. They think his getting well depends on me. Of course that's rot, but that's what they think. As for Mr. Mac himself—"