“I overheard your dissertation on here and there,” said the girl.  “I could not very well help it—­it would have been rude to interrupt a conversation.”  Her eyes sparkled mischievously and her cheeks dimpled.

“You wouldn’t have been interrupting a conversation,” objected Bridge, smiling; “you would have been turning a monologue into a conversation.”

“But it was a conversation,” insisted the girl.  “The wanderer was conversing with the bookkeeper.  You are a victim of wanderlust, Mr. L. Bridge—­don’t deny it.  You hate bookkeeping, or any other such prosaic vocation as requires permanent residence in one place.”

“Come now,” expostulated the man.  “That is hardly fair.  Haven’t I been here a whole week?”

They both laughed.

“What in the world can have induced you to remain so long?” cried Barbara.  “How very much like an old timer you must feel—­one of the oldest inhabitants.”

“I am a regular aborigine,” declared Bridge; but his heart would have chosen another reply.  It would have been glad to tell the girl that there was a very real and a very growing inducement to remain at El Orobo Rancho.  The man was too self-controlled, however, to give way to the impulses of his heart.

At first he had just liked the girl, and been immensely glad of her companionship because there was so much that was common to them both—­a love for good music, good pictures, and good literature—­things Bridge hadn’t had an opportunity to discuss with another for a long, long time.

And slowly he had found delight in just sitting and looking at her.  He was experienced enough to realize that this was a dangerous symptom, and so from the moment he had been forced to acknowledge it to himself he had been very careful to guard his speech and his manner in the girl’s presence.

He found pleasure in dreaming of what might have been as he sat watching the girl’s changing expression as different moods possessed her; but as for permitting a hope, even, of realization of his dreams—­ah, he was far too practical for that, dreamer though he was.

As the two talked Grayson passed.  His rather stern face clouded as he saw the girl and the new bookkeeper laughing there together.

“Ain’t you got nothin’ to do?” he asked Bridge.

“Yes, indeed,” replied the latter.

“Then why don’t you do it?” snapped Grayson.

“I am,” said Bridge.

“Mr. Bridge is entertaining me,” interrupted the girl, before Grayson could make any rejoinder.  “It is my fault—­I took him from his work.  You don’t mind, do you, Mr. Grayson?”

Grayson mumbled an inarticulate reply and went his way.

“Mr. Grayson does not seem particularly enthusiastic about me,” laughed Bridge.

“No,” replied the girl, candidly; “but I think it’s just because you can’t ride.”

“Can’t ride!” ejaculated Bridge.  “Why, haven’t I been riding ever since I came here?”