“He calls that forsaken claim of his Eden,” said my brother.  “Shall we tell him what sort of a Hades it really is?”

One day, some months after this, we rode up to Eden.  It presented the usual heart-breaking appearance so familiar to men who have lived in a wild country and witnessed, year after year, the furious struggle between Man and Nature.  Misterton had cleared and planted about forty acres, enclosed with a barb-wire fence.  Riding along this, we saw that many of his fruit trees had been barked and ruined by jack-rabbits.  The month was September.  A rainless summer had dried up a spring near his house, which, against our advice, he had attempted to develop by tunnelling.  The new chicken-yards held no chickens.

Nevertheless, Jim welcomed us with a cheery smile.  He had made mistakes, of course—­who didn’t?  But he intended to come out on top, you bet your life!  Western slang flowed freely from his lips.  The blazing sun, which already had cracked the unpainted shingles on his roof, had bleached the crude blue of his jumper and overalls.  His sombrero might have belonged to a veteran cowboy.  Jim wore it with a rakish list to port, and round his neck fluttered a small, white silk handkerchief.  He looked askance at our English breeches and saddles.  Then he said pleasantly, “I’ve taken out my naturalisation papers.”

After lunch, he told us about his Angela, and displayed her photograph.

“She’s coming out,” he added shyly, “as soon as I’ve got things fixed.”

“Coming out?” we repeated in amazement.

“It’s all settled,” said Jim.  “I’m to meet her in ’Frisco; we shall be married, and then I’m going to bring her here for the honeymoon.  Won’t it be larks?”

Ajax answered, without any enthusiasm, “Won’t it?” and stared at the young, pretty face smiling up at him.

“Angela is as keen about this place as I am,” continued the fond and beaming Jim.  “It’s going to be Eden for her too, God bless her!”

Ajax said thoughtfully, “Misterton, you’re a lucky devil!”

We gleaned a few more details.  Angela was the daughter of a doctor at Surbiton, and apparently a damsel of accomplishments.  She could punt, play tennis, dance, sing, and make her own blouses; in a word, a “ripper,” “top-hole,” and no mistake!  Ajax slightly raised his brows when we learned that the course of true love had run smooth; but the doctor’s blessing was adequately accounted for—­Angela had five sisters.

“But when your lungs went wrong——?”

Misterton laughed.

“Being a doctor, you see—­and a devilish clever chap—­he knew that I’d be as right as rain out here.  ‘If you want Angela,’ he said, ’you must go full steam for fresh air and sunshine.’”

Riding home through the cactus and manzanita Ajax said irritably, “Is there any Paradise on earth without a fool in it?”

* * * * *

The following spring, Angela came out.  We attended the wedding, Ajax assisting as best man.  Afterwards, somewhat reluctantly, we agreed that Angela’s photograph had aroused expectations not quite satisfied.  She was very pretty, but her manners were neither of the town nor of the country.  Ajax said, “There must be hundreds like her in Upper Tooting; that’s where she ought to live.”