Jane sat down on her bed, still furious. After a while she was able to

understand something of this fury. The world was upside down, wrong end

to. Dennison, not Cunningham, should have acted the debonair, the

nonchalant. Before this adventure began he had been witty, amusing,

companionable; now he was as interesting as a bump on a log. At table he

was only a poor counterfeit of his father, whose silence was maintained

admirably, at all times impressively dignified. Whereas at each encounter

Dennison played directly into Cunningham's hands, and the latter was too

much the banterer not to make the most of these episodes.

What if he was worried? Hadn't she more cause to worry than any one else?

For all that, she did not purpose to hide behind the barricaded door of

her cabin. If there was a tragedy in the offing it would not fall less

heavily because one approached it with melancholy countenance.

Heaven knew that she was no infant as regarded men! In the six years of

hospital work she had come into contact with all sorts and conditions of

men. Cunningham might be the greatest scoundrel unhung, but so far as she

was concerned she need have no fear. This knowledge was instinctive.

But when her cheek touched the pillow she began to cry softly. She was so

terribly lonely!




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