"I know her you kin be sure. For one thing she's a coward. She's brave
only when she thinks she's safe. She's afraid of people--of what they'll
say of her, and she's crazy for money."
They were getting up, the two in the hammock, and as Dr. Harpe sauntered
to the porch, Andy P. Symes looked at her in a sudden and violent
dislike which he took no pains to conceal. Her hands were shoved deep in
her jacket pockets as she swaggered toward him, straight strands of
hair hung in dishevelment about her colorless, immobile face, while her
muddy hazel eyes became alternately shifting or bold as she noted the
intentness of his gaze. No detail of her slovenly appearance, her
strange personality, escaped him.
"I'll be goin', Gus; good-night," Dr. Harpe said shortly. She felt both
uneasy and irritated by the expression on his face.
Symes watched her swaggering down the sidewalk to the gate, and when it
had slammed behind her, he said, sharply--
"I'll be greatly obliged to you, Augusta, if you will ask Dr. Harpe not
to abbreviate your name. It's vulgar and I detest it."
Mrs. Symes turned and regarded him coolly for a moment before answering.
"I do not in the least mind what Dr. Harpe calls me."
"That is obvious"--his voice was harsh--"but I do--most emphatically."
Her eyes flashed defiance.
"Then tell her yourself, for I have no notion of doing so," and she
stalked inside the house.
The incident of the evening brought to a head certain plans which long
had been formulating in Dr. Harpe's mind; and the result was a note
which made his lip curl as he read and re-read it the next morning with
various shadings of angry scorn.