Pete rejected sixteen of the seventeen plans he had made that winter for his future, often guided by what he read in the occasional letters from Doris, wherein he found some rather practical suggestions—­for he wrote frankly of his intent to better himself, but wisely refrained from saying anything that might be interpreted as more than friendship.

Pete had not planned to go to El Paso quite as soon as he did; and it was because of an unanswered letter that he went.  He had written early in March and it was now May—­and no reply.

If he had waited a few days longer, it is possible that he would not have gone at all, for passing him as he journeyed toward Texas was a letter from Doris Gray in which she intimated that she thought their correspondence had better cease, and for the reason—­which she did not intimate—­that she was a bit afraid that Pete would come to El Paso, and stay in El Paso until she had either refused to see him—­it was significant that she thought of refusing to see him, for he was actually worth looking at—­or until he had asked her a question to which there was but one answer, and that was “no.”  Just why Doris should have taken it for granted that he would ask her that question is a matter which she never explained, even to herself.  Pete had never made love to her in the accepted sense of the term.  He had done much better than that, although he was entirely unconscious of it.  But that psychological moment—­whatever that may mean—­in the affairs of Doris and Pete was rapidly approaching,—­a moment more often anticipated by the female of the species than by the male.

Just what kept Pete from immediately rushing to the hospital and proclaiming his presence is another question that never can be answered.  Pete wanted to do just that thing—­but he did not.  Instead, he took a modest room at a modest hotel, bought himself some presentable clothing, dropped in to see Hodges of the Stockmen’s Security, and spent several days walking about the streets mentally preparing himself to explain just why he had come to El Paso, finally arriving at the conclusion that he had come to see little Ruth.  Doris had said that Ruth had missed him.  Well, he had a right to drop in and see the kid.  And he reckoned it was nobody’s business if he did.

He had avoided going near the General Hospital in his strolls about town, viewing that building from a safe distance and imagining all sorts of things.  Perhaps Miss Gray had left.  Perhaps she was ill.  Or she might have married!  Still, she would have told him, he thought.

Doris never knew what a struggle it cost Pete—­to say nothing of hard cash—­to purchase that bottle of perfume.  But he did it, marching into a drug-store and asking for a bottle of “the best they had,” and paying for it without a quiver.  Back in his room he emptied about half of the bottle on his handkerchief, wedged the handkerchief into his pocket, and marched to the street, determination in his eye, and the fumes of half a vial of Frangipanni floating in his wake.