These gave to her
features a repose and calm that could not be disturbed, an unconscious
dignity of character that excitement could not efface, and her gaze was
unwavering as her eyes met his in a sharp, brief struggle. Brief, for
Calumet's drooped. He felt the dominant personality of the girl and
tried to escape its effect; looked at her with a snarl, writhing under
her steady gaze, a slow red coming into his cheeks.
The silence between them lasted long. The man on the chair, swaying
back and forth, began to recover his wits and his breath. He struggled
to an erect position and gazed about him with blood-shot eyes, feeling
his throat where Calumet's iron fingers had gripped it. Twice his lips
moved in an effort to speak, but no, sound came from between them.
Under the girl's uncomfortable scrutiny, Calumet's thoughts became
strangely incoherent, and he shifted uneasily, for he felt that she was
measuring him, appraising him, valuing him. He saw slow-changing
expressions in her eyes--defiance, scorn, and, finally, amused
contempt. With the last expression he knew she had reached a decision,
not flattering to him. He tried to show her by looking at her that he
did not care what her opinion was, but his recreant eyes refused the
issue and he knew that he was being worsted in a spiritual battle with
the first strong feminine character he had met; that her personality
was overpowering his in the first clash.
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