"Thank you," she said, and even in the darkness she knew that their eyes had met.

"You are very resourceful," she continued presently. "Must we sit here all night?"

"I can think of no alternative," he confessed. "If we had fire-arms we could shoot a signal, or if there were gra.s.s about we could start a fire, although it probably would not be noticed with so many glows on the horizon to-night." He stopped to look about. Dull splashes of red in the sky pointed out remnants of the day's conflagration still eating their way through the foothills. The air was full of the pungent but not unpleasant smell of burnt gra.s.s.

"A pretty hard night to send a signal," he said, "but they're almost sure to ride this way."

She wondered why he did not offer to walk to the camp for help; it could not be more than four or five miles. Suddenly she thought she understood.

"I am not afraid to stay here alone," she said, with a little laugh.

It was the first time Grant had heard her laugh, and he thought it very musical indeed. "I've slept out many a night, and you would be back within a couple of hours."

"I'm quite sure you're not afraid," he agreed, "but, you see, I am. You got quite a tap on the head, and for some time before you came to you were talking--rather foolishly. Now if I should leave you it is not only possible, but quite probable, that you would lapse again into unconsciousness.... I really think you'll have to put up with me here."

"Oh, I wasn't thinking of that!... Did I--did I talk--foolishly?"

"Rather. Seemed to think you were swimming--or fighting--I couldn't be sure which. Sometimes you seemed to be doing both."

"Oh!" With a cold chill the events of the day came back upon her. That struggle in the water; it came to her now like a bad dream out of the long, long past. How much had she said? How much would she have given to know what she said? She felt herself recounting events....

Presently she pulled herself up with a start. She must not let him think her moody.

"Well, if we MUST enjoy each other's company, we may as well do so companionably," she said, with an effort at gaiety. "Let us talk. Tell me about yourself."

"First things first," he parried.

"Oh, I've nothing to tell. My life has been very unromantic. A few years at school, and the rest of it on the range. A very every-day kind of existence."

"I think it's the 'every-day kind of existence' that IS romantic," he returned. "It is a great mistake to think of romance as belonging to other times and other places. Even the most commonplace person has experienced romance enough for a dozen books. Quite possibly he has not recognized the romance, but it was there. The trouble is that with our limited sense of humor, what we think of as romance in other people's lives becomes tragedy in our own."

How much DID he know?... "Yes," she said, "I suppose that is so."

"I know it is so," he went on. "If we could read the thoughts--know the experiences--of those nearest to us, we would never need to look out of our own circles for either romance or tragedy. But it is as well that we can't. Take the experience of to-day, for example. I admit it has not been a commonplace day, and yet it has not been altogether extraordinary. Think of the experiences we have been through just this day, and how, if they were presented in fiction they would be romantic, almost unbelievable. And here we are at the close, sitting on a rock, matter-of-fact people in a matter-of-fact world, accepting everything as commonplace and unexceptional."

"Not quite that," she said daringly. "I see that you are neither commonplace nor unexceptional." She spoke with sudden impulse out of the depth of her sincerity. She had not met a man like this before. In her mind she fixed him in contrast with Transley, the self-confident and aggressive, and Linder, the shy and una.s.sertive. None of those adjectives seemed to fit this new acquaintance. Nevertheless, he suffered nothing by the contrast.

"If I had been bright enough I would have said that first," he apologized, "but I got rather carried away in one of my pet theories about romance. Now my life, I suppose, to many people would seem quite tame and unromantic, but to me it has been a delightful succession of somewhat placid adventures. It began in a very orthodox way, in a very orthodox family. My father, under the guidance, no doubt, of whatever star governs such lucky affairs, became possessed of a piece of land. In doing so he contributed to society no service whatever, so far as I have been able to ascertain. But it so fell about that society, in considerable numbers, wanted his land to live on, so society made of my father a wealthy man, and gave him power over many people. Could anything be more romantic than that? Could the fairy tales of your childhood surpa.s.s it for benevolent irresponsibility?"

"My father has also become wealthy," she said, "although I never thought of it in that way."

"Yes, but in exchange for his wealth your father has given service to society; supplied many thousands of steers for hungry people to eat.

That's a different story, but not less romantic.

"Well, to proceed. I was brought up to fit my station in life, whatever that means. There were just two boys of us, and I was the elder. My father had become a broker. I believe he had become quite a successful broker, using the word in its ordinary sense, which denotes the making of money. You see, he already had too much money, so it was very easy for him to make more. He wanted me to go into the office with him, but some way I didn't fit in. I've no doubt there was lots of romance there, too, but I was of the wrong nature; I simply couldn't get enthusiastic over it. As we already had more money than we could possibly spend on things that were good for us, I failed to see the point in sitting up nights to increase it. Being of a frank disposition I confided in my father that I felt I was wasting my time in a broker's office. He, being of an equally frank disposition, confided in me that he entertained the same opinion.

"Then I delivered myself of some of my pet theories about wealth. I told him that I didn't believe that any man had a right to money unless he earned it in return for service given to society, and I said that as society had to supply the money, society should determine the amount. I confessed that I was a little hazy about how that was to be carried out, but I insisted that the principle was right, and, that being so, the working of it out was only a matter of detail. I realize now that this was all fanatical heresy to my father; I remember the pained look that came into his eyes. I thought at the time that it was anger, but I know now that it was grief--grief and humiliation that a son of his should entertain such wild and unbalanced ideas.

"Well, there was more talk, and the upshot of it was that I got out, accompanied by an a.s.surance from my father that I would never be burdened with any of the family ducats. Roy--my younger brother--succeeded to the worries of wealth, and I came to the ranges where, no doubt to the deep chagrin of my father, I have been able to make a living, and have, incidentally, been profoundly happy. I'll take a wager that to-day I look ten years younger than Roy, that I can lick him with one hand, that I have more real friends than he has, and that I'm getting more out of life than he is. I'm a man of whims. When they beckon I follow."

Grant had been talking intensely. He paused now, feeling that his enthusiasm had carried him into rather fuller confidences than he had intended.

"I'm sorry I bored you with that harangue," he said contritely. "You couldn't possibly be interested in it."

"On the contrary, I am very much interested in it," she protested. "It seems so much finer for a man to make his own way, rather than be lifted up by someone else. I am sure you are already doing well in the West.

Some day you will go back to your father with more money than he has."

Grant uttered an amused little laugh.

"I was afraid you would say that," he answered. "You see, you don't understand me, either. I don't want to make money. Can you understand that?"

"Don't want to make money? Why not?"

"Why should I?"

"Well, everybody does. Money is power--it is a mark of success. It would open up a wider life for you. It would bring you into new circles. Some day you will want to marry and settle down, and money would enable you to meet the kind of women--"

She stopped, confused. She had plunged farther than she had intended.

"You're all wrong," he said amusedly. It did not even occur to Zen that he was contradicting her. She had not been accustomed to being contradicted, but then, neither had she been accustomed to men like Dennison Grant, nor to conversations such as had developed. She was too interested to be annoyed.

"You're all wrong, Miss--?"

"I don't wonder that you can't fill in my name," she said. "n.o.body knows Dad except as Y.D. But I heard you call me Zen--"

"That was when you were coming out of your unconsciousness. I apologize for the liberty taken. I thought it might recall you--"

"Well, I'm still coming out," she interrupted. "I am beginning to feel that I have been unconscious for a very long time indeed. Let me hear why you don't want money."

Grant was aware of a pleasant glow excited by her frank interest. She was altogether a desirable girl.

"I have observed," he said, "that poor people worry over what they haven't got, and rich people worry over what they have. It is my disposition not to worry over anything. You said that money is power.

That is one of its deceits. It offers a man power, but in reality it makes him its slave. It enchains him for life; I have seen it in too many cases--I am not mistaken. As for opening up a wider life, what wider life could there be than this which I--which you and I--are living?"

She wondered why he had said "you and I." Evidently he was wondering too, for he fell into reflection. She changed her position to ease the dull pain in her ankle, which his talk had almost driven from her mind. The rock had a perpendicular edge, so she let her feet hang over, resting the injured one upon the other. He was sitting in a similar position. The silence of the night had gathered about them, broken occasionally by the yapping of coyotes far down the valley. Segments of dull light fringed the horizon; the breeze was again blowing from the west, mild and balmy. Presently one of the segments of light grew and grew. It was as though it were rushing up the valley. They watched it, fascinated; then burst into laughter as the orb of the moon became recognizable.... There was something very companionable about watching the moon rise, as they did.

"The greatest wealth in the world," he said at length, as though his thoughts had been far afield, searching, perchance, the mazy corridors of Truth for this atom of wisdom; "the greatest wealth in the world is to be able to do something useful. That is the only wealth which will not be disturbed in the coming reorganization of society."

Zen did not reply. For the first time in her life she stood convicted, before her own mind, of a very profound ignorance. Dennison Grant had been drawing back the curtain of a world of the existence of which she had never known. He had talked to her about "the coming reorganization of society"? What did it mean? She was at home in discussions of herds or horses; she was at home with the duties of kitchen or reception-room; she was at home with her father or Transley or Linder or Drazk or Tompkins the cook, but Dennison Grant in an hour had carried her into a far country, where she would be hopelessly lost but for his guidance....

Yet it seemed a good and interesting country. She wanted to enter in--to know it better.

"Tell me about the coming reorganization of society," she said.

"That is an all-night order," he returned. "Besides, I can't tell you all, because I don't know all. I know only very, very little. I see my little gleam of light and keep my eye close upon it. But you must know that society is always in a state of reorganization. Nothing continues as it was. Those who dismiss a problem glibly by saying it has always been so and always will be so don't read history and don't understand human nature."

He turned toward her as interest in his theme developed. The moonlight was now pouring upon them; her face was beautiful and fine as marble in its soft rays. For a moment he hesitated, overwhelmed by a sudden realization of her attractiveness. He had just been saying that the law of nature was the law of change, and nature itself stood up to refute him.

He brought himself back to earth. "I was saying that everything changes," he continued. "Look at our economic system, for instance. Not so many centuries ago the man who got the most wealth was the man with the biggest muscle and the toughest skin. He wielded a stout club, and what he wanted, he took. His system of operation was simple and direct.

You have money, you have cattle, you have a wife--I'm speaking of the times that were. I am stronger than you. I take them. Simplicity itself!"