"In the Cathills."
"The Lightfoot gang?"
"Yes. That's what he called it. You knew of them?"
There was a slight movement of the woman's shoulders. It was the faintest possible shrug.
"Everybody in Calthorpe heard of them."
Then she turned and faced him. The mask with which she confronted him was perfect. Her dark beauty was unimpaired by a sign of emotion. Even her cheeks had returned to their customary delicate bloom. Her eyes shone with a world of sympathy as she came toward him.
"Jeff, don't think of it all—now, dear. It's too, too dreadful. Guess I was wrong to let you tell me. I certainly was. It's past. It's done with. Nothing can ever bring him back to you. To dwell upon it, to think and feel that way, will only serve to embitter your life. Say, try, Jeff. I'll help you, dear. I will. Sure. Sure. Won't you try, for—my sake?"
The man took her hands in his. He drew her toward him. The strained expression of his eyes melted before her perfect beauty.
"I'll try, Evie," he said, without conviction. Then he kissed her.
After a while she looked up.