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Updated: June 23, 2025
In Sylvia's world men did not calmly ignore injury. They became violent, even when violence could not possibly mend matters. Had Harboro decided to accept the inevitable, the irremediable, without a word? Her first thought, last night, had been that she would probably lose Harboro, too, together with her peace of mind. He would rush madly at Fectnor, and he would be killed.
I noticed once that you didn't count your change when you'd paid for some drinks. That was the way in everything you did. You seemed lavish with everything that was in you; you let the big things go and didn't worry about the change. You were a big man in some ways, Fectnor. A girl needn't have been ashamed of admiring you. But Fectnor ... I've come to see what a low life it was I was leading.
Harboro supposed the matter did not interest her; but she asked at length: "You know him, then?" "Only by reputation. A fellow with a lot of bluff, I think. I don't believe very much in bad men. He's managed to terrify the Mexicans somehow or other." He had not noticed that her voice had become dull and low. "Fectnor!" she breathed to herself.
Then her fear for him returned with redoubled force. Quiet men were sometimes the most desperate, the most unswerving, she realized. Perhaps he had gone even now to find Fectnor. The thought terrified her. She sprang from the bed and began dressing with feverish haste. She would overtake him and plead with him not to go.
At length he remarked: "Fectnor, I see you've got a gun on you." "I have," was the steely response. Fectnor's narrow blue eyes became, suddenly, the most alert thing about a body which was all alertness. "So have I," said Harboro. The other's narrow eyes seemed to twinkle. His response sounded like: "The L you say!" "Yes," said Harboro.
Only by the fraction of a second was the finger on the trigger stayed. It was not Fectnor who appeared. Dunwoodie stepped into sight casually and looked in Harboro's direction. The expression of amused curiosity in his eyes swiftly gave place to almost comical amazement when he took in that spasmodic movement of Harboro's. "What's up?" he inquired. He approached Harboro leisurely.
The politicians knew that getting Fectnor was almost equivalent to getting the office. It was more economical to pay him his price than to employ uncertain aids who would have sold their services much more cheaply. Harboro and Sylvia were sitting on their balcony the second night before the election. A warm wind had been blowing and it was quite pleasant out of doors.
If necessary, she would tell him other things about herself about the reasons she had given Fectnor, long ago, to believe that she was not a woman to be respected. Harboro would not forgive her, in that event. He would leave her. But he would not go to his death. It seemed to her quite clear that the only unforgivable sin she could commit would be to permit Harboro to die for her sake.
Whatever the truth was, she knew that Fectnor had no right to bring such a charge against her. "Your language is very quaint at times," she said. A curve of disdain hovered about her lips. "I'm not aware of being, or of ever having been, loose in any way. I can't think where such a word originated." "You know what I mean well enough.
If only she had not defied Fectnor; if only she had made a plea for pity, or suggested a fear of her husband or if she hadn't sent any answer at all! It occurred to her that the exposure which menaced her was as nothing to the perils to which she had subjected Harboro. She knew instinctively that Harboro was not a man to submit to deliberate injury from any source.
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