“My wife has been saying for years that you’re a myth,” said Gaynor, the gleam in his eyes as youthful as it had ever been; “that you are no more flesh and blood than the unicorn or the dodo bird.  To-day I’ll show her.  They were up half the night dancing and fussing around; she will be down in two shakes, though.”

“In the meantime we can talk,” said King.  “I’ve got something to tell you, Ben.”

Gaynor led the way through a room where were piano and victrola and from the floor of which the rugs were still rolled; through a dining-room and into what was at once a small library and Gaynor’s study; King noted that even a telephone had found its way hither.  A chair pulled forward, a box of cigars offered, and the two friends took stock in each other’s eyes of what the last year had done for each.

“You look more fit than ever, Mark—­and younger.”

King wanted to say the same thing of his friend, but the words did not come.  Gaynor was by far the older man, King’s senior by a score of years, and obviously had begun to feel the burden of the latter greying days.  Or of cares flocking along with them; they generally come together.  His were seriously accepted responsibilities, where Mark gathered unto himself fresh hopes and eager joys; the responsibilities which come in the wake of wife and daughter; a home to be maintained in the city, the necessity to adapt himself, even if stiffly, to unfamiliar conditions.  This big log house itself, it seemed to King, was carried on the back of old Ben.

They had been friends together since King could remember, since Ben had big-brothered him, carried him on his back, taught him to swim and shoot.  Then one year while King was off at school his friend took unto himself a wife.  This with no permission from Mark King; not even after a conference with him; in fact, to his utter bewilderment.  King did not so much as know of the event until Gaynor, after a month of honeymooning, remembered to drop him a brief note.  The bald fact jarred; King was hurt and grew angry and resentful with all of that unreason of a boy.  He went off to Alaska without a word to Gaynor.

With the passage of time the friends had again grown intimate, had been partners in more than one deal, and the youthful relationship had been cemented by the years.  But it had happened, seemingly purely through chance, although King knew better, that he had never met Gaynor’s wife or daughter.  When Gloria was little, Mrs. Gaynor had been impressed by the desirability of a city environment, had urged the larger schools, music teachers, proper young companions, and a host of somewhat vague advantages.  Hence a large part of the year Gaynor kept bachelor’s quarters in his own little lumber town in the mountains where his business interests held him and where his wife and daughter came during a few weeks in the summer to visit him.  At such periods King always managed to be away.  This year the wife and daughter, drawn by the new summer home, had come early in the season, and King’s business was urgent.  Besides, he had told himself a dozen times, there really existed no sane reason in the world why he should avoid Ben Gaynor’s family as though they were leprous.