“I like you!” she exclaimed.

The suddenness of the incident, the impossibility of what was happening, made Neale dumb.  He felt her, saw her as he were in a dream.  Her face possessed a peculiar fascination.  The sleepy, seductive eyes; the provoking half-smile, teasing, alluring; the red lips, full and young through the carmine paint; all of her seemed to breathe a different kind of a power than he had ever before experienced—­unspiritual, elemental, strong as some heady wine.  She represented youth, health, beauty, terribly linked with evil wisdom, and a corrupt and irresistible power, possessing a base and mysterious affinity for man.

The breath and the charm and the pestilence of her passed over Neale like fire.

“Sweetheart, will you dance with me?” she asked, with her head tilted to one side and her half-open veiled eyes on his.

“No,” replied Neale.  He put her from him, gently but coldly.

She showed slow surprise.  “Why not?  Can’t you dance?  You don’t look like a gawk.”

“Yes, I can dance,” replied Neale.

“Then will you dance with me?” she retorted, and red spots showed through the white on her cheeks.

“I told you no,” replied Neale.

His reply transported her into a sudden fury.  She swung her hand viciously.  Hough caught it, saving Neale from a sounding slap in the face.

“Ruby, don’t lose your temper,” remonstrated the gambler.

“He insulted me!” she cried, passionately.

“He did not.  Ruby, you’re spoiled—­”

“Spoiled—­hell! ...  Didn’t he look at me, flirt with me?  That’s why I asked him to dance.  Then he insulted me.  I’ll make Cordy shoot him up for it.”

“No, you won’t,” replied Hough, and he pulled her toward his companion, a tall woman with golden hair.  “Stanton, shut her up.”

The woman addressed spoke a few words in Ruby’s ear.  Then the girl flounced away.  But she spoke with withering scorn to Neale.

“What in hell did you come in here for, you big handsome stiff?”

With that she was lost amid her mirthful companions.

Hough turned to Neale.  “The girl’s a favorite.  You ruffled her vanity ... you see.  That’s Benton.  If you had happened to be alone you would have had gunplay.  Be careful after this.”

“But I didn’t flirt with her,” protested Neale.  “I only looked at her—­curiously, of course.  And I said I wouldn’t dance.”

Hough laughed.  “You’re young in Benton.  Neale, let me introduce to you the lady who saved you from some inconvenience ....  Miss Stanton—­Mr. Neale.”

And that was how Neale met Beauty Stanton.  It seemed she had done him a service.  He thanked her.  Neale’s manner with women was courteous and deferential.  It showed strangely here by contrast.  The Stanton woman was superb, not more than thirty years old, with a face that must have been lovely once and held the haunting ghost of beauty still.  Her hair was dead gold; her eyes were large and blue, with dark circles under them; and her features had a clear-cut classic regularity.