He came over to her and bent low:
“You know I am to take you Monday night”—
Her hands flew very rapidly—her cheeks mantled into a rich glow. One of the threads snapped. She stopped, confused.
Travis glanced around. No one was near. He bent and kissed her hair:
“My queen,” he whispered, “my beautiful queen.”
Then he walked quickly out. He went to his office, but he still saw the beautiful picture. It thrilled him and then there swept up over him another picture, and he cried savagely to himself:
“I'll make her sorry. She shall bow to that fine thing yet—my queen.”
Nor would it leave him that day, and into the night he dreamed of her, and it was the same Titian picture in a background of red sunset. And her machine was a harp she was playing. He wakened and smiled:
“Am I falling in love with that girl? That will spoil it all.”
He watched her closely the next day, for it puzzled him to know why she had changed so rapidly in her manner toward him. He had ridden to Millwood to bring her to the mill, himself; and he had some exquisite roses for her—clipped in the hot-house by his own hands. It was with an unmistakable twitch of jealousy that he learned that Clay Westmore had already come by and gone with her.