e into that. I
was young, but I savvied what it meant.... It was hell arter
that--shooting and screaming.... When I came out.... When I came out...."

He said no more. His eyes were staring into nothingness as through his
brain flashed the dreadful scene of youth. He remembered running and
crying--running and crying into the wilderness until a party of emigrants
rescued him from madness.

Angela sat with parted lips. It was strange to be sitting there listening
to such horrors. She was conscious of the giant personality behind his
nervousness. The great voice commanded her attention. In those few moments
she was afraid of him.

"Let us go in," she said.

The rest of the evening was a dream to Jim. Occasionally people stared at
him as though he were a creature from a menagerie, and several adventurous
folks actually talked with him. But all this was like a hazy background
against which shone the almost unearthly beauty of Angela. A new phase had
been entered in the life of Colorado Jim. Passion, long dampered down by
wild living and arduous toil, leaped up in one soul-consuming flame. He
was in love with a woman--a woman as far above him, and as unattainable as
a star. He moved about like a drunken man, bewildered by this new and
terrible desire.

"What do you think of Angy?" queried Claude.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he said fiercely.

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me she was like that."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

Jim shut his mouth with a snap.

"Nothin'," he said.

These Featherstones knew how to enjoy themselves. For hour after hour the
dreamy strains of waltz music came from the string orchestra, and couples
moved rhythmically round the big room, as though fatigue was a thing
unknown. Once or twice Jim caught sight of the angel of his dreams, with
face no longer pale, hanging on some man's arm, immersed in the
all-consuming measure. It was maddening....

He was sitting in the conservatory, smoking, when Featherstone came out.
All the evening he had kept an inquisitive eye on Jim. This was
Featherstone's mental day, and one of those rare occasions when he thought
about money and things.

"Ah, Mr. Conlan," he drawled. "So you don't dance?"

"No--leastways, not that sort."

"Pity. Dancing is a fine exercise."

"I guess I'm not in want of exercise."

"No?" He looked at Jim's huge figure. "'Pon my word, I think you're
right.... Are you settling down in this country--buying a small estate,