be a divine discontent, but I respect the man
who keeps his mouth shut until he finds a remedy or a raise.

"I don't often speak of myself," he went on, "but perhaps this is the
moment. I am as thirsty for California, Paine, as a man for drink. It
is the dry season out there, and the hills are brown, but I love the
brown, and the purple shadows in the hollows. I have ridden over those
hills for days at a time,--I shall never ride a horse over them again."
He stopped and went on. "Oh, I've wanted to whine. I have wanted to
curse the fate that tied me to a chair like this. I have been an
active man--out-of-doors, and oh, the out-of-doors in California.
There isn't anything like it--it is the sense of space, the clear-cut
look of things. But I won't go back. Not till I have learned to do my
day's work, and then I will let myself play a bit. I'd like to take
you with me, Paine--you and a good car--and we'd go over the hills and
far away----

"I haven't told you much of my life. And there's not a great deal to
tell. Fifteen years ago I married a little girl and thought I loved
her. But what I really loved was the thought of doing things for her.
I had money and she was poor. It was pleasant to see her eyes shine
when I gave her things---- But money hasn't anything to do with love,
Paine, and that is where we American men fall down. When we love a
woman we begin to tell her of our possessions and to tempt her by them.
And the thing that we should do is to show her ourselves. We should
say, 'If I were stripped of all my worldly goods what would there be in
me for you to like?' My little wife and I had not one thing in common.
And one day she left me. She found a man who gave her love for love.
I had given her cars and flowers and boxes of candy and diamonds and
furs. But she wanted more than that. She died--two years ago. I
think she had been happy in those last years. I never really loved
her, but she taught me what love is--and it is not a question of barter
and sale----"

He seemed to be thinking aloud. Randy spoke after a silence. "But a
man must have something to offer a woman."

"He must have himself. Oh, we are all crooked in our values, Paine.
The best that a man can give a woman is his courage, his hope, his
aspiration. That's enough. I learned it too late. I don't know why I
am saying all this to you, Paine."

But Randy knew. It was on such nights that men showed their souls to
each