his side of his nature.

"How do folks get married?" he was saying. "Why, number one, they
meet; number two, like each other's looks; number three, get
acquainted; and number four, get married or not, according to how they
like each other after getting acquainted. But how in thunder we're to
have a chance to find out whether we like each other enough is beyond
my savvee, unless we make that chance ourselves. I'd come to see you,
call on you, only I know you're just rooming or boarding, and that
won't do."

Suddenly, with a change of mood, the situation appeared to Dede
ridiculously absurd. She felt a desire to laugh--not angrily, not
hysterically, but just jolly. It was so funny. Herself, the
stenographer, he, the notorious and powerful gambling millionaire, and
the gate between them across which poured his argument of people
getting acquainted and married. Also, it was an impossible situation.
On the face of it, she could not go on with it. This program of
furtive meetings in the hills would have to discontinue. There would
never be another meeting. And if, denied this, he tried to woo her in
the office, she would be compelled to lose a very good position, and
that would be an end of the episode. It was not nice to contemplate;
but the world of men, especially in the cities, she had not found
particularly nice. She had not worked for her living for years without
losing a great many of her illusions.

"We won't do any sneaking or hiding around about it," Daylight was
explaining. "We'll ride around as bold if you please, and if anybody
sees us, why, let them. If they talk--well, so long as our consciences
are straight we needn't worry. Say the word, and Bob will have on his
back the happiest man alive."

She shook her head, pulled in the mare, who was impatient to be off for
home, and glanced significantly at the lengthening shadows.

"It's getting late now, anyway," Daylight hurried on, "and we've
settled nothing after all. Just one more Sunday, anyway--that's not
asking much--to settle it in."

"We've had all day," she said.

"But we started to talk it over too late. We'll tackle it earlier next
time. This is a big serious proposition with me, I can tell you. Say
next Sunday?"

"Are men ever fair?" she asked. "You know thoroughly well that by
'next Sunday' you mean many Sundays."

"Then let it be many Sundays," he cried recklessly, while she thought
that she had never seen him looking ha