“I dunno,” she responded vaguely.
“Ah, but you guess;” he caught both her hands. “Tell me why you think he is coming.”
She lifted her eyes to his, which had a constraining quality for her. “He be kemin’ ter see me—’bout—’bout Owen Haines—him—him ez prayed fur the power—I reckon. They be mighty close friends.”
He gave a short laugh of ridicule.
She could not join in his mirth. Only so short a time ago its cause had been the tragedy of the world to her. She could hardly bring herself to admit even to herself that now, scarcely three weeks later, she cared as little for it as if it had never been. But her world had changed. How it had developed! There were new countries; strange peoples had been discovered; a marvelous scope of emotion had been evolved. Romance had unfolded its wondrous page. She had seen Poetry trim its pinions and wing its flight. She had lived a new life; she was a changeling. Where was her old self? Her fancied love for the young religionist, her wounded pride for his sake, her scorching, fiery compassion for her own—all had fled. She remembered herself in these emotions as if she were another being. She could hardly pity Owen Haines. If he did not care for the fleer of ridicule, why should she? For since—she had lived an enchanted life.
“What will he want of you?” demanded Royce gravely.
She faltered. She feared Tynes and his powers of argument. She dreaded, not being convinced, but the rigors of the contest. And if Owen Haines should, as a sacrifice to love, agree to relinquish his “praying fur the power,” she dreaded the renewal of their old status of “keepin’ comp’ny.”
“He will want me ter take Owen Haines back.”
“But you wouldn’t, Phemie, you wouldn’t?” urged Royce breathlessly.
“He mought gin up prayin’ fur the power. I turned him off fur that,” she hesitated.