She took more part in the talk than usual, and strove to draw her husband out. Nor was Dick unaware of this, although he yielded and permitted himself to let go full tilt on the theme of the blond sun– perishers.
She is trying to make him compete—was Graham's thought. But Paula scarcely thought of that phase of it, her pleasure consisting in the spectacle of two such splendid men who were hers. They talk of big game hunting, she mused once to herself; but did ever one small woman capture bigger game than this?
She sat cross-legged on the couch, where, by a turn of the head, she could view Graham lounging comfortably in the big chair, or Dick, on his elbow, sprawled among the cushions. And ever, as they talked, her eyes roved from one to the other; and, as they spoke of struggle and battle, always in the cold iron terms of realists, her own thoughts became so colored, until she could look coolly at Dick with no further urge of the pity that had intermittently ached her heart for days.
She was proud of him—a goodly, eye-filling figure of a man to any woman; but she no longer felt sorry for him. They were right. It was a game. The race was to the swift, the battle to the strong. They had run such races, fought such battles. Then why not she? And as she continued to look, that self-query became reiterant.
They were not anchorites, these two men. Liberal-lived they must have been in that past out of which, like mysteries, they had come to her. They had had the days and nights that women were denied—women such as she. As for Dick, beyond all doubt—even had she heard whispers—there had been other women in that wild career of his over the world. Men were men, and they were two such men. She felt a burn of jealousy against those unknown women who must have been, and her heart hardened. They had taken their fun where they found it—Kipling's line ran through her head.
Pity? Why should she pity, any more than she should be pitied? The whole thing was too big, too natural, for pity. They were taking a hand in a big game, and all could not be winners. Playing with the fancy, she wandered on to a consideration of the outcome. Always she had avoided such consideration, but the tiny highball had given her daring. It came to her that she saw doom ahead, doom vague and formless but terrible.
She was brought back to herself by Dick's hand before her eyes and apparently plucking from the empty air the something upon which she steadfastly stared.
«Seeing things?» he teased, as her eyes turned to meet his.
His were laughing, but she glimpsed in them what, despite herself, made her veil her own with her long lashes. He knew. Beyond all possibility of error she knew now that he knew. That was what she had seen in his eyes and what had made her veil her own.
«'Cynthia, Cynthia, I've been a-thinking,'» she gayly hummed to him; and, as he resumed his talk, she reached and took a sip from his part– empty glass.
Let come what would, she asserted to herself, she would play it out. It was all a madness, but it was life, it was living. She had never so lived before, and it was worth it, no matter what inevitable payment must be made in the end. Love?—had she ever really loved Dick as she now felt herself capable of loving? Had she mistaken the fondness of affection for love all these years? Her eyes warmed as they rested on Graham, and she admitted that he had swept her as Dick never had.
Unused to alcohol in such strength, her heart was accelerated; and Dick, with casual glances, noted and knew the cause of the added brilliance, the flushed vividness of cheeks and lips.
He talked less and less, and the discussion of the sun-perishers died of mutual agreement as to its facts. Finally, glancing at his watch, he straightened up, yawned, stretched his arms and announced:
«Bed-time he stop. Head belong this fellow white man too much sleepy along him.—Nightcap, Evan?»
Graham nodded, for both felt the need of a stiffener.
«Mrs. Toper—nightcap?» Dick queried of Paula.
But she shook her head and busied herself at the piano putting away the music, while the men had their drink.
Graham closed down the piano for her, while Dick waited in the doorway, so that when they left he led them by a dozen feet. As they came along, Graham, under her instructions, turned off the lights in the halls. Dick waited where the ways diverged and where Graham would have to say good night on his way to the tower room.
The one remaining light was turned off.
«Oh, not that one, silly,» Dick heard Paula cry out. «We keep it on all night.»
Dick heard nothing, but the dark was fervent to him. He cursed himself for his own past embraces in the dark, for so the wisdom was given him to know the quick embrace that had occurred, ere, the next moment, the light flashed on again.
He found himself lacking the courage to look at their faces as they came toward him. He did not want to see Paula's frank eyes veiled by her lashes, and he fumbled to light a cigarette while he cudgeled his wits for the wording of an ordinary good night.
«How goes the book?—what chapter?» he called after Graham down his hall, as Paula put her hand in his.
Her hand in his, swinging his, hopping and skipping and all a-chatter in simulation of a little girl with a grown-up, Paula went on with Dick; while he sadly pondered what ruse she had in mind by which to avoid the long-avoided, good night kiss.
Evidently she had not found it when they reached the dividing of the ways that led to her quarters and to his. Still swinging his hand, still buoyantly chattering fun, she continued with him into his workroom. Here he surrendered. He had neither heart nor energy to wait for her to develop whatever she contemplated.
He feigned sudden recollection, deflected her by the hand to his desk, and picked up a letter.
«I'd promised myself to get a reply off on the first machine in the morning,» he explained, as he pressed on the phonograph and began dictating.
For a paragraph she still held his hand. Then he felt the parting pressure of her fingers and her whispered good night.
«Good night, little woman,» he answered mechanically, and continued dictating as if oblivious to her going.
Nor did he cease until he knew she was well out of hearing.
CHAPTER XXVIII
A dozen times that morning, dictating to Blake or indicating answers, Dick had been on the verge of saying to let the rest of the correspondence go.
«Call up Hennessy and Mendenhall,» he told Blake, when, at ten, the latter gathered up his notes and rose to go. «You ought to catch them at the stallion barn. Tell them not to come this morning but to-morrow morning.»
Bonbright entered, prepared to shorthand Dick's conversations with his managers for the next hour.
«And—oh, Mr. Blake,» Dick called. «Ask Hennessy about Alden Bessie.—
The old mare was pretty bad last night,» he explained to Bonbright.
«Mr. Hanley must see you right away, Mr. Forrest,» Bonbright said, and added, at sight of the irritated drawing up of his employer's brows, «It's the piping from Buckeye Dam. Something's wrong with the plans—a serious mistake, he says.»
Dick surrendered, and for an hour discussed ranch business with his foremen and managers.
Once, in the middle of a hot discussion over sheep-dips with Wardman, he left his desk and paced over to the window. The sound of voices and horses, and of Paula's laugh, had attracted him.
«Take that Montana report—I'll send you a copy to-day,» he continued, as he gazed out. «They found the formula didn't get down to it. It was more a sedative than a germicide. There wasn't enough kick in it…»
Four horses, bunched, crossed his field of vision. Paula, teasing the pair of them, was between Martinez and Froelig, old friends of Dick, a painter and sculptor respectively, who had arrived on an early train. Graham, on Selim, made the fourth, and was slightly edged toward the rear. So the party went by, but Dick reflected that quickly enough it would resolve itself into two and two.
Shortly after eleven, restless and moody, he wandered out with a cigarette into the big patio, where he
