Enoch stared at Diana with astonishment in every line of his face.  Then he sighed.  “He couldn’t have told you all,” he muttered.

“Yes, he did, all!  And nothing, not even what the President said to-day, can mean as much to me as your asking me to be your friend.”

Enoch continued to stare at the lovely, tender face opposite him.

Diana smiled.  “Don’t look so incredulous, Mr. Secretary!  It’s not polite.  You are a very famous person.  I am nobody.  We are lunching together in a wonderful hotel.  I don’t even vaguely surmise the names of the things we are eating.  Don’t look at me doubtingly.  Look complacent because you can give a lady so much joy.”

Enoch laughed with a quick relief that made his cheeks burn.  “And so you are nobody!  Curious, then, that you should have impressed yourself on me so deeply even when you were a child!”

It was Diana’s turn to laugh.  “Oh, come, Mr. Secretary!  Of course I don’t recall it myself, but Dad has always said that you were bored to death at having a small girl taking the trail with you.”

“Do you remember that your mule slipped on the home trail and that I saved your life?” demanded Enoch.

Diana shook her head.  “I was too small and there were too many canyon trips and too many tourists.  I wish—­”

She did not finish her sentence, but Enoch said, with a thread of earnestness in his deep voice that made Diana look at him keenly, “I wish you did remember!”

There was a moment’s silence, then Enoch went on, “Shall you carry on your work with the Indians alone as you always have done?  I believe I can quite understand your father’s uneasiness.”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Diana, glad of an opportunity to redirect the conversation.  “Just as I always have done.  I shall have no trouble unless I get soft, living at the Johnstown Lunch!  Then I may have to waste time till I get fit again.  Have you ever lived on the trail, excepting on your trip to the Grand Canyon, Mr. Secretary?”

“Yes, in Canada and Maine, while I was in college.  I used to tutor rich boys, and they had glorious summers, lucky kids!  But since getting into national politics, I’ve had no time for real play.”

“Some day,” said Diana, “you ought to get up an outfit and go down the Colorado from the Green River to the Needles.  That’s a real adventure!  Only a few men have done it since the Powell expeditions.”

Enoch’s eyes brightened.  “I know!  Some day, perhaps I shall, if Jonas will let me!  How long do you suppose such a trip would take?”

Diana plunged into a description of a recent expedition down the canyons of the Colorado, and she managed to keep the remainder of the luncheon conversation on this topic.  But as far as Enoch was concerned, Diana’s effort was merely a conversational detour.  The luncheon finished and the Gulf of California safely reached, he said as he handed Diana into the carriage: