knowledge of his friendliness. "Especially that big one." She waved her
muff toward the towering peak. "I never did see such a night! It's
like--it's like--" She widened her eyes, as though, by taking into her
brain an immense picture of the night, she might find out its likeness.

Dickie, moving uncertainly beside her, murmured, "Like the inside of a
cold flame, a very white flame."

Sheila turned her chin, pointed above the fur collar of her coat, and
included him in the searching and astonished wideness of her look.

"You work at The Aura, don't you?" she asked with childlike _brusquerie_.

Dickie's sensitive, undecided mouth settled into mournfulness. He
looked away.

"Yes, ma'am," he said plaintively.

Sheila's widened eyes, still fixed upon him, began to embarrass him. A
flush came up into his face.

She moved her look across him and away to the range.

"It _is_ like that," she said--"like a cold flame, going up--how did you
think of that?"

Dickie looked quickly, gratefully at her. "I kind of felt," he said
lamely, "that I had got to find out what it was like. But"--he shook his
head with his deprecatory smile--"but that don't tell it, Miss Arundel.
It's more than that." He smiled again. "I bet you, you could think of
somethin' better to say about it, couldn't you?"

Sheila laughed. "What a funny boy you are! Not like the others. You don't
even look like them. How old are you? When I first saw you I thought you
were quite grown up. But you can't be much more than nineteen."

"Just that," he said, "but I'll be twenty next month."

"You've always lived here in Millings?"

"Yes, ma'am. Do you like it? I mean, do you like Millings? I hope you
do."

Sheila pressed her muff against her mouth and looked at him over it. Her
eyes were shining as though the moonlight had got into their misty
grayness. She shook her head; then, as his face fell, she began to
apologize.

"Your father has been so awfully kind to me. I am so grateful. And the
girls are awfully good to me. But, Millings, you know?--I wouldn't
have told you," she said half-angrily, "if I hadn't been so sure you
hated it."

They had come to the edge of the mesa, and there below shone the small,
scattered lights of the town. The graphophone was playing in the saloon.
Its music--some raucous, comic song--insulted the night.

"Why, no," said Dickie, "I don't hate Millings. I never thought about it
that way. It's not such a bad place. Honest, i