She went to the foot of the ladder, which rose from the middle of the living-room floor, and called heartily, an indulgent laugh in her voice, “You, Sheila!  Better come down!  Here’s your beau.”

There was no answer.

“Hear me, Sheila?  Mis-ter Cos-me Hill-iard.”

This time some brief and muffled answer was returned.  Miss Blake smiled and went over to her elk-horn throne.  There she sat and sewed—­an incongruous occupation it looked.

Cosme was leaning forward, elbows on knees, his face a study of impatience, anger, and suspicion.

“What made her mad?” he asked bluntly.

“O-oh!  She’ll get over it.  She’ll be down.  Sheila can’t resist a young man.  You’ll see.”

“What did you do?” insisted the stern, crisp, un-western voice.  When Cosme was angry he reverted rapidly to type.

“Why,” drawled Miss Blake, “I crept up when she was drying her hair and I cut it off.”  She laughed loudly at his fierce start.

“Cut off her hair!  What right—?”

“No right at all, my friend, but common sense.  What’s the good of all that fluffy stuff hanging about and taking hours of her time to brush and wash and what-not.  Besides”—­she shot a look at him—­“it’s part of the cure.”

“By the Lord,” said Cosme, “I’d like you to explain.”

The woman crossed her legs calmly.  She was still indulgently amused.

“Don’t lose your head, young man,” she advised.  “Better smoke.”

After an instant Cosme rolled and lighted a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.  His anger had settled to a sort of patient contempt.

“I’ve put her into breeches, too,” said Miss Blake.

“What the devil!  What do you mean?  She has a will of her own, hasn’t she?”

“Oh, yes.  But you see I’ve got Miss Sheila just about where I want her.  She’s grateful enough for her food and the roof over her head and for the chance I’m giving her.”

“Chance?” He laughed shortly.  “Chance to do all your heavy work?”

“Why not say honest work?  It’s something new to her.”

There was a brief, thunderous silence.  Cosme’s cigarette burned between his stiff fingers.  “What do you mean?” he asked, hoarse with the effort of his self-control.

She looked at him sharply now.  “Are you Paul Carey Hilliard’s son—­the son of Roxana Hilliard?” she asked.  She pointed a finger at him.

“Yes,” he answered with thin lips.  His eyes narrowed.  His face was all Latin, all cruel.

“Well”—­Miss Blake slid her hands reflectively back and forth on the bone arms of her chair.  She had put down her work.  “I was just thinking,” she said slowly and kindly, “that the son of your mother would be rather extra careful in choosing the mother of his sons.”

“I shall be very careful,” he answered between the thin lips.  “I am being careful.”

She fell back with an air of relief.  “Oh,” she said, as though illuminated.  “O-oh!  I understand.  Then it’s all right.  I didn’t read your game.”