Bryant’s face lightened with a smile almost sunny.

“By heavens, it’s comforting to have a friend like you,” he exclaimed, “when one’s in a tight place!”

The waiter began to place her meal, and he turned his head to look out of the window while his mind recalled his talk with Ruth in the hotel parlour at Kennard.  Little comfort he had had from her then.  Her interest in the project, in fact, as he reviewed the summer, had been slight, always casual, concerned only with its financial factor, never particularly sympathetic, never warm, never eager.  The thought struck him unpleasantly.  It had never occurred to him before.  He wondered if this indifference would continue when they were married, if in ten years—­when he was about forty, say—­she would be even less inclined to know his work, like the wives of some men he could name who had their own separate interests, who gave their husbands no sympathy at their tasks, nor courage, nor heart, and whose single cognizance of it had to do with the size of the income.

But he drove this depressing and disloyal speculation from his mind.  Ruth was young and perhaps restless, but she was sweet and full of promise.  Time would round out her character; and when she had matured, she would be one in a million—­a mate who cheered and inspired.  Every bit of that!  She would presently see the real values of things; Charlie Menocal’s monkey tricks would no longer amuse her, and she would perceive what a shallow harlequin he was, while she would comprehend Gretzinger’s vicious, unprincipled sophistry and turn in disgust from the man.  She was inexperienced, that was all.

“It will be good to be back once more where one has plenty of room,” Louise Graham remarked.  “In that liking, you see, I’m a genuine Westerner.  That’s what I missed most when at school in the East, at Bryn Mawr—­space.  I wanted my big mountains and wide mesa and long, restful views.  And how I galloped on my pony through the sagebrush when I came back during summer vacations!”

The recollection set her eyes glistening.

“You still do it when you return from a trip, I’ll venture to say,” Lee stated, marking the glow of her face.

“Yes, I do.  Almost the very first thing.  It clears my brain of city noise and sights and grime.  It soothes my nerves.  Nothing does that like our keen air with its scent of sagebrush.”

“Then I should see you riding up my way soon.”

“Oh, I’ll certainly want to follow the progress of your work, Mr. Bryant.  With father’s teams working for you, I’ll feel as if we had a part in the race.”  After a pause she proceeded, “The contractor’s outfit went up and you were just starting the dam and excavation about the time I went East.  Father mentioned in a letter to me that he had dropped in at your camp once or twice when at Bartolo.”

“Yes, I showed him what we were doing.  We’ve had other visitors occasionally.  Miss Gardner and Miss Martin—­at Sarita Creek, you remember—­come at times.  Miss Martin is a niece of Mr. McDonnell, of Kennard.”