“Well, Andersen,” Mr. Ellsworth said, extending a hand, “how are you?  Got here at last—­awful drive.  Where do we stop?  You know my daughter, of course.”

What treachery to Heart’s Desire was here!  Dan Anderson, a man who had come to stay, shaking hands on terms of old acquaintanceship, apparently, with Eastern Capital itself; and not content with that, advancing easily and courteously, hat in hand, to greet the daughter of Eastern Capital as though it were but yesterday that last they met.  Moreover, and bitterest of all for a loyal man of Heart’s Desire, was there not a glance, a word between them?  Did Dan Anderson whisper a word and did she flush faint and rosy? or was it a touch of the light?  Certain it was he reached up his hand to take hers, shaking it not too long nor too fervently.

“I do remember Miss Ellsworth very well, of course, Mr. Ellsworth,” said he.  “We are all very glad to see you.”

“And we’re very glad to see you!” echoed the girl.  “Oh! the dust, the dust!” She spoke in a full, sweet voice, excellent even for outlanders to hear.  If there were agitation in her tones, agitation in Dan Andersen’s heart, none might know it.  This meeting, five years and two thousand miles from a parting, seemed the most natural and ordinary thing in all the world.  Mr. Ellsworth was of the belief that he himself had planned it so far as himself and Dan Anderson were concerned.

“My daughter was on her way out to California, you see,” Ellsworth began again; “down at El Paso she took a sudden freak for coming up here to see about the climate—­lots of folks go West nowadays, you know, even in the spring.  I’ll warrant she’s sick of the trip by now.  A good climate has to have dust to season it.  One of the mules went lame—­thought we would never get here.  And now tell me, where’ll she stop?” The personification of Eastern Capital looked about him dubiously at the only hotel of Heart’s Desire, before which the coach had pulled up as a matter of course.  “Any women folks in town, anywhere?” he inquired, bringing his roving eye to rest upon Dan Andersen’s impassive face.

“I was upon the point of saying, Mr. Ellsworth,” replied Dan Anderson—­and vaguely one felt that his diction was once more that of Princeton—­“that my friend here, a prominent member of the bar, will go with Miss Ellsworth to the house of a nice little woman, wife of—­er—­a cow gentleman of our acquaintance.  That will be best for her.  I’ll try to take care of you myself, sir, if you like, while the Learned Counsel goes with Miss Ellsworth.”

There were introductions and further small talk, and presently Learned Counsel found himself climbing up to the seat beside Eve; beside the Temptress who, he made no manner of doubt, had come to put an end to Paradise.