“She must have been born in this wilderness, raised in it!” he mused, when she had passed.  “Her eyes are the eyes of a glorious young animal, bred to the freedom of outdoors, a part of the wild, untamable desert!  And her manner is like the manner of a great lady born in a palace!”

“Hey, Greek,” Roger was saying, his droning voice coming unpleasantly into the other’s musings, “did you pipe that?  Did you ever see anything like her?”

Conniston lighted a fresh cigarette and turned again to look out across the level gray miles.  Ignoring his friend, Greek thought on, idly telling himself that the Dream Girl should be born out here, after all.  Here she would have a soul; a soul as far-reaching, as infinite, as free from shackles of convention as the wide bigness of her cradle.  And she would have eyes like that, drawing their very shade from the vague grayness which seemed to him to spread over everything.

“I say, Greek,” Roger was insisting, sufficiently interested to sit up straight, his cigarette dangling from his lip, “that little country girl, dressed like a wild Indian, is pretty enough to be the belle of the season!  What do you think?”

Conniston laughed carelessly.

“You’re an impressionable young thing, Hapgood.”

“Am I?” grunted Roger.  “Just the same, I know a fine-looking woman when I clap my bright eyes on her.  And I’d like to camp on her trail as long as the sun shines!  Say”—­his voice half losing its eternal drawl—­“who do you suppose she is?  Her old man might own about a million acres of this God-forsaken country.  If she goes on through to ’Frisco—­”

“You wouldn’t be strong for stopping off out here?” the fat man put in genially.  Hapgood shuddered.

And to Greek Conniston there came a sudden inspiration.

“Anyway,” Roger Hapgood went on in his customary drawl, “I’m going to find out.  It’s little Roger to learn something about the prairie flower.  I’ll soon tell you who she is,” he added, rising from his seat.

But he never did.  For one thing, young Conniston was not there when Roger returned five minutes later, and it is extremely doubtful if Roger Hapgood would have told how his venture had fared.  Being duly impressed with the fascination of his own debonair little person, and having the imagination of a cow, he had smirked his way to the girl, who now sat in the observation-car, and had begun on the weather.

“Dreadfully warm in this desert country, isn’t it?” he said, with over-politeness and the smile which he knew to be irresistible.

The girl turned from gazing out the window, and her eyes met his, very clear and very much amused.

“Very warm,” she smiled back at him.  Even then he had a faint fear that she was not so much smiling as laughing.  “The surprising thing is how well things keep, is it not?”

“Ah—­yes,” he murmured, not entirely confident, and still dropping into a chair at her side.  “You mean—­”