“You are too good to me, Max,” she said, brokenly, “God knows what will become of me when I leave you all and go among foreign faces, among whom I shall not have a friend. I hope to work and—be contented; but I shall never meet a friend like you again.”
He drew her to him quickly.
“Don’t go!” he whispered, pleadingly. “I can’t let you go out into the world alone like that! I will love you—care for you—”
“Hush!” and she put her hand on his face to push it away; “it is no use, and don’t do that—try to kiss me; you must not. No man has ever kissed me, and you—”
“And I sha’n’t be the first,” he added, shrugging his shoulders. “Well, I confess I hoped to be, and you are a greater temptation than you know, Miss Montana. And you ought to pardon me the attempt.”
Her face was flushed and shamed. “I could pardon a great deal in you, Max,” she answered; “but don’t speak of it again. Talk to me of other things.”
“Other things? Well, I haven’t many other things in my mind just now. Still, I did see some one down town this morning whom you rather liked, and who asked after you. It was Mr. Harvey, the writer, whom we met first at Bonner’s Ferry, up in the Kootenai land. Do you remember him?”
“Certainly. We met him afterward at one of the art galleries, and I have seen him several times at Roden’s 323 studio. They are great friends. He looked surprised to find me there, but, after I spoke to him, he talked to me a great deal. You know, Max, I always imagine he heard that suspicion of me up at the camp. Do you think so?”
“He never intimated it to me,” answered Max; “though Haydon nearly went into spasms of fear lest he would put it all in some paper.”
“I remember. He would scarcely allow me breathing space for fear the stranger would get near enough to speak to me again. I remember all that journey, because when I reached the end of it, the past seemed like a troubled dream, for this life of fineness and beauty and leisure was all so different.”