"And——" Her lips were parted, her eyes large. She no longer heard the voices on the stage. "Did you ever——Mr. Holt said you once shot——"
"Yes," said Stainton, gravely, "I think I once killed a man."
She clasped her hands on the railing of the box.
"Tell me about it," she commanded. Her tone was a compliment.
"There's nothing to tell. It was in an Alaskan mining-camp. The man was drunk and armed. He attacked me, and I had to defend myself. He shot twice before I shot at all, but I hit and he didn't. I'm sorry I had to do it to remain alive, but I'm not sorry to have remained alive."
"Oh," she cried, petulantly, "you are so matter-of-fact!"
"Not nearly so matter-of-fact as you suppose. Not in the important things. In business, in everyday life, a man has to be matter-of-fact. It's the only method to get what you want."
"Do you really think so?" She appealed to him now as to a well of knowledge. Perhaps, he reflected, she had about her ordinarily few wells to which she was permitted so to appeal. "Then maybe that is why I don't get what I want."
"Surely you have all you want."
She shook her raven hair. "Not any of it."