I-XIX

Gordon thought again of Lettice Hollidew
as he was sitting for the last evening on the
porch of the dwelling that had passed out
of his hands. Twilight had poured through the
valley, thickening beneath the trees, over the stream;
the mountain ranges were dark, dusty blue against a
maroon sky. He recalled the sympathy, the plea for
comprehension, in Lettice's gaze, lifted, for the first
time, frankly against his own.

Hers was not the feminine type which attracted
him; he preferred a more flamboyant beauty, ready
repartee, the conscious presence and employment of
the lure of sex. His taste had been fed by the paid
women of Stenton, the few, blowsy, loose females of
the mountains; these and the surface chatter of the
stage, and Clare, formed his sole knowledge, experience,
surmising, of women. He recalled Lettice
condescendingly; she did not stir his pulses, appeal
to his imagination. Yet she moved his pride, his inordinate
self-esteem. It had been on his account,
and not Clare's, that she had come to the funeral.
The little affair with Buckley Simmons had cap-

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p091 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p092w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p093

v?