“The more I know you,” said Diana, “the more I am confirmed in the opinion I had of you years before I met you.  And that is that however our great Departments need men of your administrative capacity and integrity—­and I’m perfectly willing to admit that their need is dire—­your place, Enoch Huntingdon, is in the Senate.  Yet I suppose your party will insist on pushing you on into the White House.  And it will be a mistake.”

“Why?” asked Enoch quickly.

“Because,” replied Diana, brushing the lavender dust from her brown hands thoughtfully, “your gift of oratory, your fundamental, sane dreams for the nation, your admirable character, impose a particular and peculiar duty on you.  It has been many generations since the nation had a spokesman.  Patrick Henry, Daniel Webster, have been dead a long time.  Most of our orators since have killed their own influence by fanatical clinging to some partisan cause.  You should be bigger than any party, Enoch.  And in the White House you cannot be.  Our spoils system has achieved that.  But in the Senate is your great, natural opportunity.”

Enoch smiled.  “Without the flourishes of praise, I’ve reached about the same conclusion that you have,” he said.  “I have been told,” he hesitated, “that I could have the party nomination for the presidency, if I wished it.  You know that practically assures election.”

Diana nodded.  “And it’s a temptation, of course!”

“Yes and no!” replied Enoch.  “No man could help being moved and flattered, yes, and tempted by the suggestion.  And yet when I think of the loneliness of a man like me in the White House, the loneliness, and the gradual disillusionment such as the President spoke of you, the temptation has very little effect on me.”

“How kind he was that day!” exclaimed Diana, “and how many years ago it seems!”

They rode on in silence for a few moments, then Diana exclaimed, “Look, Enoch dear!”

Ahead of them, along the rim of the bowl, an Indian rode.  His long hair was flying in the wind.  Both he and his horse were silhouetted sharply against the brilliant western sky.

“Make a picture of it, Diana!” cried Enoch.

Diana shook her head.  “I could make nothing of it!”

Na-che gave a long, shrill call, which the Indian returned, then pulled up his horse to wait for them.  When Enoch and Diana reached the rim, the others already had overtaken him.

“It’s Wee-tah!” exclaimed Diana, then as she shook hands, she added:  “Where are you going so fast, Wee-tah?”

The Indian, a handsome young buck, his hair bound with a knotted handkerchief, glanced at Enoch and answered Diana in Navajo.

Diana nodded, then said:  “Judge, this is Wee-tah, a friend of mine.”

Enoch and the Indian shook hands gravely, and Diana said, “Can’t you take supper with us, Wee-tah?”

“You stay, Wee-tah,” Na-che put in abruptly.  “Jonas and I want you to help us with a charm.”