He was to become a probationer and Betty was to watch his every move.
He wondered, making a wry face at the thought, whether she intended to record his actions in a book, giving him marks of merit or demerit according as the whim struck her?
In that case she had probably already placed a black mark against him, perhaps several.
He stood long beside the fence, considering the situation.

It was odd to the point of unreality, but, no matter how odd, it was a situation that he must face, because he had already decided to stay and make an attempt to get the money.

He certainly would not go away and leave it to Betty; he would not give her that satisfaction.

Nor did he intend to be pliable clay in her hands, to become in the end a creature of her shaping.

He would stay, but he would be himself, and he would make the Claytons rue the day they had interfered in his affairs.
Leaning on the top rail of the fence, his gaze roved over the sweep of valley, dull and cheerless in the early dawn, with a misty film rising up out of it to meet and mingle and evaporate in the far-flung colors of the slow-rising sun.