It was foolish.  She knew that it was foolish.  But she had been living rather harshly and rather materially for some time, and she hungered for the romance of youth.  Starr was the only person who had come to her untagged by the sordid, everyday petty details of life.  It did not hurt him to be idealized, but it might have hurt Helen May a little to know that he was pondering so earthly a subject as a big, black automobile careering without lights across the desert and carrying four men who looked like Mexicans.

CHAPTER EIGHT

HOLMAN SOMMEKS, SCIENTIST

Helen May, under a last year’s parasol of pink silk from which the sun had drawn much of its pinkness and the wind and dust its freshness, sat beside the road with her back against the post that held the macaroni box, and waited for the stage.  Her face did not need the pink light of the parasol, for it was red enough after that broiling walk of yesterday.  The desert did not look so romantic by the garish light of midday, but she stared out over it and saw, as with eyes newly opened to appreciation, that there was a certain charm even in its garishness.  She had lost a good deal of moodiness and a good deal of discontent, somewhere along the moonlight trail of last night, and she hummed a tune while she waited.  No need to tell you that it was:  “Till the sun grows cold, till the stars are old—­” No need to tell you, either, of whom she was thinking while she sang.

But part of the time she was wondering what mail she would get.  Her chum would write, of course; being a good, faithful chum, she would probably continue to write two or three letters a week for the next three months.  After that she would drop to one long letter a month for awhile; and after that—­well, she was a faithful chum, but life persists in bearing one past the eddy that holds friendship circling round and round in a pool of memories.  The chum’s brother had written twice, however; exuberant letters full of current comedy and full-blooded cheerfulness and safely vague sentiment which he had partly felt at the time he wrote.  He had “joshed” Helen May a good deal about the goats, even to the extent of addressing her as “Dear Goat-Lady” in the last letter, with the word “Lady” underscored and scrawled the whole width of the page.  Helen May had puzzled over the obscure meaning of that, and had decided that it would have sounded funny, perhaps, if he had said it that way, but that it “didn’t get over” on paper.

She wondered if he would write again, or if his correspondence would prove as spasmodic, as easily interrupted as his attentions had been when they were both in the same town.  Chum’s brother was a nice, big, comfy kind of young man; the trouble was that he was too popular to give all his interest to one girl.  You know how it is when a man stands six feet tall and has wavy hair and a misleading smile and a great, big, deep-cushioned roadster built for two.  Helen May appreciated his writing two letters to her, he who hated so to write letters, but her faith in the future was small.  Still, he might write.  It seemed worth while to wait for the stage.