The fingers of Sheba were busy with the embroidery upon which she worked, but her thoughts were full of the man who lay asleep on the lounge. His strong body lay at ease, relaxed.
Already health was flowing back into his veins. Beneath the tan of the lean, muscular cheeks a warmer color was beginning to creep. Soon he would be about again, vigorous and forceful, striding over obstacles to the goal he had set himself.
Just now she was the chief goal of his desire. Sheba did not deceive herself into thinking that he had for a moment accepted her dismissal of him.
He still meant to marry her, and he had told her so in characteristic way the day after their break.
Sheba had sent him a check for the amount he had paid her and had refused to see him or anybody else.
Shamed and humiliated, she had kept to her room. The check had come back to her by mail.
Across the face of it he had written in his strong handwriting:—
I don't welsh on my bets. You can't give to me what is not mine.
Do not think for an instant that I shall not marry you.