e the nerve to discover one up here--in the
wilderness."

"She's got them all beat," retorted the artist, flecking the ash from
the tip of his cigarette.

"Even the Valencia girl, eh?"

There was a chuckling note of pleasure in Philip Whittemore's voice as
he leaned half across the table, his handsome face, bronzed by snow and
wind, illumined in the lamp-glow. Gregson, in strong contrast, with his
round, smooth cheeks, slim hands, and build that was almost womanish,
leaned over his side to meet him. For the twentieth time that evening
the two men shook hands.

"Haven't forgotten Valencia, eh?" chuckled the artist, gloatingly.
"Lord, but I'm glad to see you again, Phil. Seems like a century since
we were out raising the Old Ned together, and yet it's less than three
years since we came back from South America. Valencia! Will we ever
forget it? When Burke handed me his first turn-down a month ago and
said, 'Tom, your work begins to show you want a rest,' I thought of
Valencia, and was so confoundedly homesick for those old days when you
and I pretty nearly started a revolution, and came within an ace of
getting our scalps lifted, that I moped for a week. Gad, do I remember
it? You got out by fighting, and I through a pretty girl."

"And your nerve," chuckled Whittemore, crushing the other's hand. "That
was when I made up my mind you were the nerviest man alive, Greggy. Did
you ever learn what became of Donna Isobel?"

"She appeared twice in Burke's, once as the 'Goddess of the Southern
Republics' and again as 'The Girl of Valencia.' She married that
reprobate of a Carabobo planter, and I believe they're happy."

"It seems to me there were others," continued Whittemore, pondering for
a moment in mock seriousness. "There was one at Rio whom you swore
would make your fortune if you could get her to sit for you, and whose
husband was on the point of putting six inches of steel into you for
telling her so, when I explained that you were young and harmless, and
a little out of your head--"

"With your fist," cried Gregson, joyously. "Gad, but that was a mighty
blow! I can see that knife now. I was just beginning my paternoster
when--chug!--and down he went! And he deserved it. I said nothing
wrong. In my very best Spanish I asked her if she would sit for me, and
why the devil did he take that as an insult? And she was beautiful."

"Of course," agreed Whittemore. "If I remember, she was 'the loveliest
creature you had