Pete saw no reason why he should not, either, but rather a very attractive reason why he should.

Without further word they turned and walked down the street, Doris wondering what in the world had induced Pete to immerse himself in Frangipanni, and Pete wondering if there was ever a prettier girl in the world than Doris Gray.

And because Pete wanted to talk about something entirely impersonal, he at once began to ask her what she thought of his latest plan, which was to purchase an interest in the Concho, spend his summers working with the men and his winters in Tucson, studying with Forbes about whom he had written to her.

Doris thought it was a splendid plan.  She was sure—­quite impersonally—­that he would make a success of anything he attempted.

Pete was not so sure, and he told her so.  She joked him for doubting himself.  He promptly told her that he didn’t doubt himself for a minute, but that he did doubt the willingness of the person whom he hoped to make a partner in the venture.

“Not Mr. Forbes?” she queried, glancing quickly at Pete’s serious face.

“Nope.  It’s you.”

They walked another block without speaking; then they walked still another.  And they had begun to walk still another when Pete suddenly pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and threw it in the gutter.  “That doggone perfume is chokin’ me to death!” he blurted.  And Doris, despite herself, smiled.

They were out where the streets were more open and quiet now.  The sun was close to the edge of the desert, far in the west.  Doris’s hand trembled just the least bit as she turned to say “good-night.”  They had stopped in front of a house, near the edge of town.  Pete’s face was a bit pale; his dark eyes were intense and gloomy.

Quite unconscious of what he was doing, he pulled out his watch—­a new watch that possessed no erratic tendencies.  Suddenly Doris thought of Pete’s old watch, and of little Ruth’s extreme delight in its irresponsible hands whirling madly around, and of that night when Pete had been brought to the hospital.  Suddenly there were two tears trembling on her lashes, and her hand faltered.  Then, being a sensible person, she laughed away her emotion, for the time being, and invited Pete in to supper.

Pete thought Doris’s sister a mighty nice girl, plumb sensible and not a bit stuck up.  And later, when this “plumb sensible” person declared that she was rather tired and excused herself and disappeared, after bidding Pete good-night, he knew that she was a sensible person.  He couldn’t see how she could help it, being the sister of Doris.

“So I’ll be sayin’ good-night,” stated Pete a few minutes later, as he stood by the door, proud and straight and as vital as a flame.

But he didn’t say it, at least coherently.  Doris’s hand was on his sleeve.  Pete thought she had a mighty pretty hand.  And as for her eyes—­they were gray and misty and warm . . . and not at all like he had ever seen them before.  He laughed happily, “You look plumb lonesome!” he said.