A roar of laughter was her reward, and the poet blushed and receded into his sensitive sh.e.l.l.

Ernestine turned on the black-bearded one:

"Now, Aaron. He's not in form. You start it. You know how. Begin: 'As Bergson so well has said, with the utmost refinement of philosophic speech allied with the most comprehensive intellectual outlook that....'"

More laughter roared down the table, drowning Ernestine's conclusion as well as the laughing retort of the black-bearded one.

"Our philosophers won't have a chance to-night," Paula stole in an aside to Graham.

"Philosophers?" he questioned back. "They didn't come with the Wickenberg crowd. Who and what are they? I'm all at sea."

"They--" Paula hesitated. "They live here. They call themselves the jungle-birds. They have a camp in the woods a couple of miles away, where they never do anything except read and talk. I'll wager, right now, you'll find fifty of d.i.c.k's latest, uncatalogued books in their cabins. They have the run of the library, as well, and you'll see them drifting in and out, any time of the day or night, with their arms full of books--also, the latest magazines. d.i.c.k says they are responsible for his possessing the most exhaustive and up-to-date library on philosophy on the Pacific Coast. In a way, they sort of digest such things for him. It's great fun for d.i.c.k, and, besides, it saves him time. He's a dreadfully hard worker, you know."

"I understand that they... that d.i.c.k takes care of them?" Graham asked, the while he pleasured in looking straight into the blue eyes that looked so straight into his.

As she answered, he was occupied with noting the faintest hint of bronze--perhaps a trick of the light--in her long, brown lashes.

Perforce, he lifted his gaze to her eyebrows, brown, delicately stenciled, and made sure that the hint of bronze was there. Still lifting his gaze to her high-piled hair, he again saw, but more p.r.o.nounced, the bronze note glinting from the brown-golden hair. Nor did he fail to startle and thrill to a dazzlement of smile and teeth and eye that frequently lived its life in her face. Hers was no thin smile of restraint, he judged. When she smiled she smiled all of herself, generously, joyously, throwing the largess of all her being into the natural expression of what was herself and which domiciled somewhere within that pretty head of hers.

"Yes," she was saying. "They have never to worry, as long as they live, over mere bread and b.u.t.ter. d.i.c.k is most generous, and, rather immoral, in his encouragement of idleness on the part of men like them. It's a funny place, as you'll find out until you come to understand us.

They... they are appurtenances, and--and hereditaments, and such things. They will be with us always until we bury them or they bury us.

Once in a while one or another of them drifts away--for a time. Like the cat, you know. Then it costs d.i.c.k real money to get them back.

Terrence, there--Terrence McFane--he's an epicurean anarchist, if you know what that means. He wouldn't kill a flea. He has a pet cat I gave him, a Persian of the bluest blue, and he carefully picks her fleas, not injuring them, stores them in a vial, and turns them loose in the forest on his long walks when he tires of human companionship and communes with nature.

"Well, only last year, he got a bee in his bonnet--the alphabet. He started for Egypt--without a cent, of course--to run the alphabet down in the home of its origin and thereby to win the formula that would explain the cosmos. He got as far as Denver, traveling as tramps travel, when he mixed up in some I. W. W. riot for free speech or something. d.i.c.k had to hire lawyers, pay fines, and do just about everything to get him safe home again.

"And the one with a beard--Aaron Hanc.o.c.k. Like Terrence, he won't work.

Aaron's a Southerner. Says none of his people ever did work, and that there have always been peasants and fools who just couldn't be restrained from working. That's why he wears a beard. To shave, he holds, is unnecessary work, and, therefore, immoral. I remember, at Melbourne, when he broke in upon d.i.c.k and me, a sunburnt wild man from out the Australian bush. It seems he'd been making original researches in anthropology, or folk-lore-ology, or something like that. d.i.c.k had known him years before in Paris, and d.i.c.k a.s.sured him, if he ever drifted back to America, of food and shelter. So here he is."

"And the poet?" Graham asked, glad that she must still talk for a while, enabling him to study the quick dazzlement of smile that played upon her face.

"Oh, Theo--Theodore Malken, though we call him Leo. He won't work, either. His people are old Californian stock and dreadfully wealthy; but they disowned him and he disowned them when he was fifteen. They say he is lunatic, and he says they are merely maddening. He really writes some remarkable verse... when he does write; but he prefers to dream and live in the jungle with Terrence and Aaron. He was tutoring immigrant Jews in San Francisco, when Terrence and Aaron rescued him, or captured him, I don't know which. He's been with us two years now, and he's actually filling out, despite the facts that d.i.c.k is absurdly generous in furnishing supplies and that they'd rather talk and read and dream than cook. The only good meals they get is when they descend upon us, like to-night."

"And the Hindoo, there--who's he?"

"That's Dar Hyal. He's their guest. The three of them invited him up, just as Aaron first invited Terrence, and as Aaron and Terrence invited Leo. d.i.c.k says, in time, three more are bound to appear, and then he'll have his Seven Sages of the Madrono Grove. Their jungle camp is in a madrono grove, you know. It's a most beautiful spot, with living springs, a canyon--but I was telling you about Dar Hyal.

"He's a revolutionist, of sorts. He's dabbled in our universities, studied in France, Italy, Switzerland, is a political refugee from India, and he's. .h.i.tched his wagon to two stars: one, a new synthetic system of philosophy; the other, rebellion against the tyranny of British rule in India. He advocates individual terrorism and direct ma.s.s action. That's why his paper, _Kadar,_ or _Badar,_ or something like that, was suppressed here in California, and why he narrowly escaped being deported; and that's why he's up here just now, devoting himself to formulating his philosophy.

"He and Aaron quarrel tremendously--that is, on philosophical matters.

And now--" Paula sighed and erased the sigh with her smile--"and now, I'm done. Consider yourself acquainted. And, oh, if you encounter our sages more intimately, a word of warning, especially if the encounter be in the stag room: Dar Hyal is a total abstainer; Theodore Malken can get poetically drunk, and usually does, on one c.o.c.ktail; Aaron Hanc.o.c.k is an expert wine-bibber; and Terrence McFane, knowing little of one drink from another, and caring less, can put ninety-nine men out of a hundred under the table and go right on lucidly expounding epicurean anarchy."

One thing Graham noted as the dinner proceeded. The sages called d.i.c.k Forrest by his first name; but they always addressed Paula as "Mrs.

Forrest," although she called them by their first names. There was nothing affected about it. Quite unconsciously did they, who respected few things under the sun, and among such few things not even work--quite unconsciously, and invariably, did they recognize the certain definite aloofness in d.i.c.k Forrest's wife so that her given name was alien to their lips. By such tokens Evan Graham was not slow in learning that d.i.c.k Forrest's wife had a way with her, compounded of sheerest democracy and equally sheer royalty.

It was the same thing, after dinner, in the big living room. She dared as she pleased, but n.o.body a.s.sumed. Before the company settled down, Paula seemed everywhere, bubbling over with more outrageous spirits than any of them. From this group or that, from one corner or another, her laugh rang out. And her laugh fascinated Graham. There was a fibrous thrill in it, most sweet to the ear, that differentiated it from any laugh he had ever heard. It caused Graham to lose the thread of young Mr. Wombold's contention that what California needed was not a j.a.panese exclusion law but at least two hundred thousand j.a.panese coolies to do the farm labor of California and knock in the head the threatened eight-hour day for agricultural laborers. Young Mr. Wombold, Graham gleaned, was an hereditary large land-owner in the vicinity of Wickenberg who prided himself on not yielding to the trend of the times by becoming an absentee landlord.

From the piano, where Eddie Mason was the center of a group of girls, came much noise of ragtime music and slangtime song. Terrence McFane and Aaron Hanc.o.c.k fell into a heated argument over the music of futurism. And Graham was saved from the j.a.panese situation with Mr.

Wombold by Dar Hyal, who proceeded to proclaim Asia for the Asiatics and California for the Californians.

Paula, catching up her skirts for speed, fled down the room in some romp, pursued by d.i.c.k, who captured her as she strove to dodge around the Wombold group.

"Wicked woman," d.i.c.k reproved her in mock wrath; and, the next moment, joined her in persuading Dar Hyal to dance.

And Dar Hyal succ.u.mbed, flinging Asia and the Asiatics to the winds, along with his arms and legs, as he weirdly parodied the tango in what he declared to be the "blastic" culmination of modern dancing.

"And now, Red Cloud, sing Mr. Graham your Acorn Song," Paula commanded d.i.c.k.

Forrest, his arm still about her, detaining her for the threatened punishment not yet inflicted, shook his head somberly.

"The Acorn Song!" Ernestine called from the piano; and the cry was taken up by Eddie Mason and the girls.

"Oh, do, d.i.c.k," Paula pleaded. "Mr. Graham is the only one who hasn't heard it."

d.i.c.k shook his head.

"Then sing him your Goldfish Song."

"I'll sing him Mountain Lad's song," d.i.c.k bullied, a whimsical sparkle in his eyes. He stamped his feet, pranced, nickered a not bad imitation of Mountain Lad, tossed an imaginary mane, and cried:

"Hear me! I am Eros! I stamp upon the hills!"

"The Acorn Song," Paula interrupted quickly and quietly, with just the hint of steel in her voice.

d.i.c.k obediently ceased his chant of Mountain Lad, but shook his head like a stubborn colt.

"I have a new song," he said solemnly. "It is about you and me, Paula.

I got it from the Nishinam."

"The Nishinam are the extinct aborigines of this part of California,"

Paula shot in a swift aside of explanation to Graham.

d.i.c.k danced half a dozen steps, stiff-legged, as Indians dance, slapped his thighs with his palms, and began a new chant, still retaining his hold on his wife.

"Me, I am Ai-kut, the first man of the Nishinam. Ai-kut is the short for Adam, and my father and my mother were the coyote and the moon. And this is Yo-to-to-wi, my wife. She is the first woman of the Nishinam.

Her father and her mother were the gra.s.shopper and the ring-tailed cat.

They were the best father and mother left after my father and mother.

The coyote is very wise, the moon is very old; but who ever heard much of anything of credit to the gra.s.shopper and the ring-tailed cat? The Nishinam are always right. The mother of all women had to be a cat, a little, wizened, sad-faced, shrewd ring-tailed cat."

Whereupon the song of the first man and woman was interrupted by protests from the women and acclamations from the men.

"This is Yo-to-to-wi, which is the short for Eve," d.i.c.k chanted on, drawing Paula bruskly closer to his side with a semblance of savage roughness. "Yo-to-to-wi is not much to look at. But be not hard upon her. The fault is with the gra.s.shopper and the ring-tailed cat. Me, I am Ai-kut, the first man; but question not my taste. I was the first man, and this, I saw, was the first woman. Where there is but one choice, there is not much to choose. Adam was so circ.u.mstanced. He chose Eve. Yo-to-to-wi was the one woman in all the world for me, so I chose Yo-to-to-wi."

And Evan Graham, listening, his eyes on that possessive, encircling arm of all his hostess's fairness, felt an awareness of hurt, and arose unsummoned the thought, to be dismissed angrily, "d.i.c.k Forrest is lucky--too lucky."

"Me, I am Ai-kut," d.i.c.k chanted on. "This is my dew of woman. She is my honey-dew of woman. I have lied to you. Her father and her mother were neither hopper nor cat. They were the Sierra dawn and the summer east wind of the mountains. Together they conspired, and from the air and earth they sweated all sweetness till in a mist of their own love the leaves of the chaparral and the manzanita were dewed with the honey-dew.

"Yo-to-to-wi is my honey-dew woman. Hear me! I am Ai-kut. Yo-to-to-wi is my quail woman, my deer-woman, my lush-woman of all soft rain and fat soil. She was born of the thin starlight and the brittle dawn-light before the sun . . .

"And," Forrest concluded, relapsing into his natural voice and enunciation, having reached the limit of extemporization,--"and if you think old, sweet, blue-eyed Solomon has anything on me in singing the Song of Songs, just put your names down for the subscription edition of _my_ Song of Songs."