Her heart was full.  She had never before enjoyed a moment like this.  She was about to separate him from the baneful and pernicious life of the camps—­to tender him a gift of unutterable happiness—­to give all of him back to the work of the great railroad.

She put a trembling hand on his shoulder—­bent over him.  “Neale—­ come with me,” she whispered.

He shook his head.

“Yes!  Yes!” she returned, her voice thrilling with emotion.

Wearily, with patient annoyance, he laid down his cards and looked up.  His dark eyes held faint surprise and something that she thought might be pity.

“Miss Stanton—­pardon me—­but please understand—­No!”

Then he turned and, picking up his cards, resumed the game.

Beauty Stanton suffered a sudden vague check.  It was as if a cold thought was trying to enter a warm and glowing mind.  She found speech difficult.  She could not get off the track of her emotional flight.  Her woman’s wit, tact, knowledge of men, would not operate.

“Neale! ...  Come with—­me!” she cried, brokenly.  “There’s—­”

Some men laughed coarsely.  That did not mean anything to Stanton until she saw how it affected Neale.  His face flushed red and his hands clenched the cards.

“Say, Neale,” spoke up this brutal gamester, with a sneer, “never mind us.  Go along with your lady friend ...  You’re ahead of the game—­as I reckon she sees.”

Neale threw the cards in the man’s face; then, rising, he bent over to slap him so violently as to knock him off his chair.

The crash stilled the room.  Every man turned to watch.

Neale stood up, his right arm down, menacingly.  The gambler arose, cursing, but made no move to draw a weapon.

Beauty Stanton could not, to save her life, speak the words she wanted to say.  Something impeding, totally unexpected, seemed to have arisen.

“Neale—­come with—­me!” was all she could say.

“No!” he declared, vehemently, with a gesture of disgust and anger.

That, following the coarse implication of the gambler, conveyed to Stanton what all these men imagined.  The fools!  The fools!  A hot vibrating change occurred in her emotion, but she controlled it.  Neale turned his back upon her.  The crowd saw and many laughed.  Stanton felt the sting of her pride, the leap of her blood.  She was misunderstood, but what was that to her?  As Neale stepped away she caught his arm—­held him while she tried to get close to him so she could whisper.  He shook her off.  His face was black with anger.  He held up one hand in a gesture that any woman would have understood and hated.  It acted powerfully upon Beauty Stanton.  Neale believed she was importuning him.  To him her look, whisper, touch had meant only the same as to these coarse human animals gaping and grinning as they listened.  The sweetest and best and most exalted moment she had ever known was being made bitter as gall, sickening, hateful.  She must speak openly, she must make him understand.