The intoxication of success succeeded the intoxication of love, and in the busy months that followed the vision of Evelyn Walton’s face visited him less and less frequently.  At the end of a year she had become a pleasant memory, a memory that never failed to bring a half-sad, half-joyous little throb.  That he had never actually forgotten her meant little, when you think how very tiny and unimportant a thing must be to utterly escape memory.  He didn’t want to forget her, for she represented the only sentimental episode that had come to him since school days.  He had been much too busy to seek love affairs, and up in the mountains they don’t lie in wait for one.  Therefore at twenty-eight Wade Herrick was heart-whole.  He wondered with a smile how long he was destined to remain so unless that same meddling Fate removed either him or Evelyn Walton from Eden Village.

Zephania went through the hall singing, on her way upstairs to inaugurate her war of extermination against dirt.  Wade roused himself and lighted his pipe.  After all, he had done nothing criminal and there were ninety-nine chances in a hundred that the girl wouldn’t connect him for a moment with the astounding youth who had made violent love to her for an ecstatic five minutes on the top of Saddle Pass so many years ago.  He got up and looked at himself in the old gold-framed mirror above the table.

“My boy,” he muttered, “you’re quite safe.  You used to be fairly good looking then, if I do say it myself.  But now look at you!  You have day-laborer written all over you!  Your hair—­I wonder when and why you ever began to part it away down near your left ear.  But that’s easily changed.  Your nose—­well, you couldn’t alter that much, and it’s still fairly straight and respectable.  But that scar on the cheek-bone doesn’t help your looks a bit, my boy.  Still, you mustn’t kick about that, I reckon, for if that slice of rock had come along an inch or so farther to the right you’d have been tuerto now.  Not that your eyes are anything to be stuck up about, though; they’re neither brown nor green, nor any other recognized color; just a sort of mixture—­like Pedro’s estofados.  Your mouth, now—­you always had a homely sort of mouth, too big by far.  And you were an idiot to shave off your mustache.  You might let it grow again, now that you’re where you could have it trimmed once in awhile, but I suppose it would take a month and look like a nail-brush in the meanwhile!  And then there’s your complexion, you poor ugly hombre.  I remember when it was like anybody else’s and there was pink in the cheeks.  Look at it now!  It’s like a saddle-flap.  And your hands!”

He viewed them disdainfully.  They were immaculately clean and the nails were well tended, but two years of pick and shovel had broadened them, and at the base of each finger a calloused spot still remained.  On the left hand the tip of one finger was missing and another was bent and disfigured.  They were honorable scars, these, like the one on his cheek, but he looked at them disgustedly and finally shoved them out of sight in his pockets.