“It’s about a man who wrecked his life by systematically undermining his own illusions about life,” he answered one day Hollister’s curious inquiry as to what the new book was about, “and of how finally a very assiduously cultivated illusion made him quite happy at last.  Sound interesting?”

“How could he deliberately cultivate an illusion?” Doris asked.  “If one’s intelligence ever classifies a thing as an illusion, no conscious effort will ever turn it into a reality.”

“Oh, I didn’t say he cultivated the illusion,” Lawanne laughed.

“Besides, do you really think that illusions are necessary to happiness?” Doris persisted.

“To some people,” Lawanne declared.  “But let’s not follow up that philosophy.  We’re getting into deep water.  Let’s wade ashore.  We’ll say whatever is is right, and let it go at that.  It will be quite all right for you to offer me a cup of tea, if your kitchen mechanic will condescend.  That Chink of mine is having a holiday with my shotgun, trying to bag a brace of grouse for dinner.  So I throw myself on your mercy.”

“This man Bland is the dizzy limit,” Lawanne observed, when the tea and some excellent sandwiches presently appeared.  “He bought another rifle the other day—­paid forty-five bones for it.  That makes four he has now.  And they have to manage like the deuce to keep themselves in grub from one remittance day to the next.  He’s a study.  You seldom run across such a combination of physical perfection and child-like irresponsibility.  He was complaining about his limited income the other day—­’inkum’ in his inimitable pronunciation.  I suggested that right here in this valley he could earn a considerable number of shekels if he cared to work.  He merely smiled amiably and said he didn’t think he cared to take on a laborer’s job.  It left a chap no time for himself, you know.  I suppose he’ll vegetate here till he comes into that money he’s waiting for.  He refers to that as if it were something which pertained to him by divine right, something which freed him from any obligation to make any effort to overcome the sordid way in which they live at present.”

“He doesn’t consider it sordid,” Hollister said.  “Work is what he considers sordid—­and there is something to be said for his viewpoint, at that.  He enjoys himself tramping around with a gun, spending an afternoon to catch half a dozen six-inch trout.”

“But it is sordid,” Lawanne persisted.  “Were you ever in their house?”

Hollister shook his head.

“It isn’t as comfortable as your men’s bunk house.  They have boxes for chairs, a rickety table, a stove about ready to fall to pieces.  There are cracks in the walls and a roof that a rat could crawl through—­or there would be if Mrs. Bland didn’t go about stuffing them up with moss and old newspapers.  Why can’t a gentleman, an athlete and a sportsman make his quarters something a little better than a Siwash would be contented with?  Especially if he has prevailed on a woman to share his joys and sorrows.  Some of these days Mr. Bland will wake up and find his wife has gone off with some enterprising chap who is less cocksure and more ambitious.”