“I don’t blame the poor devils.  Think of waiting there until another came by!” Roger washed the dryness out of his mouth with a generous sip of his whisky and seltzer.

The fat man finished his glass of beer and rang for another.  Greek sat gazing out over the wide wastes of the desert.  He had never before been in a land like this.  Now that more than two thousand miles lengthened out between him and New York, he had felt himself more than ever an exile.  Heretofore he had given no thought to the people dwelling here beyond the last reaches of those things for which civilization stood to him.  He was not in the habit of thinking deeply.  That part of the day’s work could be left to William Conniston, Senior, while William Conniston, Junior, more familiarly known to his intimates as “Greek” Conniston, found that he could dispense with thinking every bit as easily as he could spend the money which flowed into his pockets.  But now, as unexpectedly as a flash from a dead fire, a girl’s face had startled him, and he found himself almost thinking—­wondering—­

Conniston turned swiftly.  The girl was passing down the long narrow hallway leading by the smoking-car, evidently seeking the observation-car.  Through the windows he could see her shoulders and face as she walked by him.  He could see that there was the same confidence in her carriage now that there had been when she had jerked her horse to a standstill and had thrown herself to the ground.  Even Roger, turning idly, uttered an exclamation of surprised interest.

She was dressed in a plain, close-fitting riding-habit which hid nothing of the undulating grace of her active young body.  In her hand she carried the riding-quirt and the spurs which she had not had time to leave behind.  Her wide, soft gray hat was pushed back so that her face was unhidden.  And as she walked by her eyes rested for a fleeting second upon the eyes of Greek Conniston.

Her cheeks were flushed rosily from her race, the warm, rich blood creeping up to the untanned whiteness of her brow.  But he did not realize these details until she had gone by; not, in fact, until he began to think of her.  For in that quick flash he saw only her eyes.  And to this man who had known the prettiest women who drive on Fifth Avenue and dine at Sherry’s and wear wonderful gowns to the Metropolitan these were different eyes.  Their color was elusive, as elusive as the vague tints upon the desert as dusk drifts over it; like that calm tone of the desert resolved into a deep, unfathomable gray, wonderfully soft, transcendently serene.  And through the indescribable color as through untroubled skies at dawn there shone the light which made her, in some way which he could not entirely grasp, different from the women he had known.  He merely felt that their light was softly eloquent of frankness and health and cleanness.  Their gaze was as steady and confident as her hand had been upon her horse’s reins.