From her first acquaintance with him she had shrunk involuntarily from the touch of his hand, the slightest contact; when he sat beside her in taxicabs and at the theatre she invariably had been unpleasantly conscious of his nearness. She was convinced now that her reluctant feet would have refused to carry her to the altar, and her tongue to answer according to her bidding.
If she had been less strong in her likes and dislikes, less violent in her prejudices, she might have forced herself to dwell upon the advantages over her present position and come to accept the situation with something like serenity. But she was too strong a character to adapt herself complacently to a livelong, intimate association with a person so genuinely, so uncontrollably, physically repugnant to her as was Sprudell.
Psychologically, it was curious--no doubt there were women in the world who had, or did, or might, adore Sprudell; but for herself she understood clearly now that the single kindly feeling she had for him was the gratitude she felt she owed him.
"I congratulate you," she said finally. "It is a remarkable story--most romantic! Money is power--there never was anything truer--Listen!" She raised a finger. "Isn't that your name? Yes; the boy is paging you."
Sprudell ostentatiously opened the telegram which was brought to him, secretly pleased at seeming to be thus pursued by the requirements of his large business interests; but his frown of importance and air of a man with weighty matters to decide was wasted upon Helen, who was watching a lively party of men making its way to a nearby table reserved for six.
Sprudell read: The original locator has beat us to the water-right. Applied by wire while I was snowed up. Advise making best terms possible with him. Letter follows. Dill.
He looked as if some one had struck him in the face.
Helen was still watching the advancing party. She murmured, with a smile of amusement, as Sprudell laid the telegram down: "Here, coming in the lead, is our unfailing news supply--Winfield Harrah. You've heard of him no doubt. Behind him, the big one--that huge chap with the black eyes, is the mysterious Samson from the West who whipped the 'Spanish Bull-dog.' 'The Man from the Bitter Roots' I think they call him."
Subconsciously, Sprudell heard what she was saying and his eyes followed hers. The start he gave caused her to turn her head quickly. His face was more than colorless, it was chalky even to the lips.
"Burt!" He exclaimed involuntarily, "Bruce Burt!" He could have bitten his tongue out the instant after.