“I got no more than I deserved, in the Big Tent,” said I. “I went in as a fool and I came out as a fool, but considerably wiser.”
“You reproached me for it,” she accused. “You hated me. Do you hate me still, I wonder? I tell you I was not to blame for the loss of your money.”
“The money has mattered little, madam,” I informed. “It was only a few dollars, and it turned me to a job more to my liking and good health than fiddling my time away, back there. I have you to thank for that.”
“No, no! You are cruel, sir. You thank me for the good and you saddle me with the bad. I accept neither. Both, as happened, were misplays. You 202 should not have lost money, you should not have changed vocation. You should have won a little money and you should have pursued health in Benton.” She sighed. “And we all would have been reasonably content. Now here you and I are—and what are we going to do about it?”
“We?” I echoed, annoyingly haphazard. “Why so? You’re being well cared for, I take it; and I’m under engagement for Salt Lake myself.”
The answer did sound rude. I was still a cad. She eyed me, with a certain whiteness, a certain puzzled intentness, a certain fugitive wistfulness—a mute estimation that made me too conscious of her clear appraising gaze and rack my brain for some disarming remark.
“You’re not responsible for me, you would say?”
“I’m at your service,” I corrected. The platitude was the best that I could muster to my tongue.
“That is something,” she mused. “Once you were not that—when I proposed a partnership. You are afraid of me?” she asked.
“Why should I be?” I parried. But I was beginning; or continuing. I had that curious inward quiver, not unpleasant, anticipatory of possible events.