It was a small challenge, and he lifted it almost roughly.
"I can't be enthusiastic where your liking for other men is concerned."
Her smile was a mere face-lighting of mockery.
"I can't imagine Mr. Bromley saying a thing like that. What was it you told me once about the high plane of men-friendships? As I remember it, you said that they were the purest passions the world has ever known. And you wouldn't admit that women could breathe the rarefied air of that high altitude at all."
"That was before I knew all the possibilities; before I knew what it means to——"
"Don't say it," she interrupted, the mocking mood slipping from her like a cast-off garment.
"I shall say it," he went on doggedly. "Loudon is nearer to me than any other man I ever knew. But I honestly believe I should hate him if—tell me that it isn't so, Elsa. For heaven's sake, help me to kill out this new madness before it makes a scoundrel of me!"
What she would have said he was not to know. Beyond the zone of light bounded by the shadows of the maples on the lawn there were sounds as of some animal crashing its way through the shrubbery. A moment later, out of the enclosing walls of the night, came a man, running and gasping for breath. It was one of the labourers from the camp at Elbow Canyon, and he made for the corner of the portico where Miss Craigmiles's hammock was swung.
"'Tis Misther Ballard I'm lukin' for!" he panted; and Ballard answered quickly for himself.
"I'm here," he said. "What's wanted?"