baffled.
"That's the worst of you," he asserted. "A man can't quite give you up in despair or disgust. There always seems to be something wholesome under this damned frivolity of yours."
"I'm glad you are so optimistic," returned Janey.
"No need to ask you how you are feeling," Randolph observed. "Yesterday you were pale--drooping. Your father was really worried. And I... But today you look like a sago lily."
"Sago? That's the name of your canyon, isn't it? And what kind of a flower? Is it pretty?"
"I think it the most exquisite in the world. Rare, rich, vivid. It blooms in the deep canyons in summer. I daresay you'll not stay long enough to see one."
"Phil, I never guessed you could be eloquent, or so good at blarney," she said, studying him gravely. "I'm beginning to believe there are unknown possibilities in you for good--and maybe evil, too."
"Sure. You can never tell what a man may do--or be driven to."
"Aren't you going to ask me to get down and come in?" she asked, archly.
"You must pardon my manners," he said, rising.
Janey slipped out of the saddle without accepting the hand he offered, and leading Patter to a near-by cedar she tied the bridle to a branch.
"I want to see your cave."
"It's pretty much of a climb."
"I suppose yesterday will stump you for some time," she replied. "Can't I have an off day once in a while without being considered a weakling? Come on, let's go."
Janey soon found that it was indeed a climb. Distances deceived her so strangely here in Arizona. There was a trail up to the cave, but it wound steep and rough, with many high steps from rock to rock. She was glad to accept Randolph's hand; and when they surmounted the slope she was breathless and hot. Randolph held her hand longer than necessary.
"Oh-h--Gee!" panted Janey, flopping down on a rock in the shade. "Some--climb."
"You made it without a stop," returned Randolph, admiringly. "Your heart and lungs are sure all right--if your mind is gone."
"Mr.--Randolph!"
"That's your father's assumption," said Randolph, dryly. "I don't exactly share it."
"Maybe I am--just a healthy--moron," laughed Janey, removing her sombrero. "Wouldn't it be fine--if the desert and you--developed me into a real woman?"
"Morons don't develop," he replied, ignoring her intimation.
Janey now took stock of the archaeologist's cave. It was an amazing cavern. She sat at the lower edge of the slope of its back wall, yet the vaulted roof, far overhead, reached out into the canyon. A dry, dusty, musty odor, not unpleasant, permeated the place. The debris from the walls and slopes was red and yellow. Far up Janey discerned the remains of walls. In the largest section a small black window, like a vacant eye, stared down at her. It gave her a queer sensation. Human eyes had gazed out of that window ages ago. She saw a trench near her, with pick and shovel lying where Randolph had thrown them.
"Mr. Randolph, were you in the war?" asked Janey, suddenly.
"Yes, a little while. Long enough to learn to dig. That's about the only real good the service did me," he replied, somewhat bitterly.
"You should be grateful. My friends who went to France came back no good. You certainly seem free of any injury."
"I am, I guess, except a twist in my mind. I only knew of it recently--last winter in fact."
"Indeed. And how does it affect you?" asked Janey, doubtfully.
"I think it developed a latent weakness for beauty."
"In nature?"
"Oh, no. I always had that. It must be in--woman."
"Any woman. Well, that is no weakness. It's a very commendable thing, and gives you a kinship with most men."
"Miss Endicott, I didn't say in any woman," returned Randolph, sharply. "Didn't you? Very well, it doesn't matter... Now, show me around the place and tell me all about your work."
Randolph had something on his mind. He did not seem natural. It was as if he had been compelled to be someone he was not. Janey half regretted that she had not encouraged him to tell more about the woman
"That's the worst of you," he asserted. "A man can't quite give you up in despair or disgust. There always seems to be something wholesome under this damned frivolity of yours."
"I'm glad you are so optimistic," returned Janey.
"No need to ask you how you are feeling," Randolph observed. "Yesterday you were pale--drooping. Your father was really worried. And I... But today you look like a sago lily."
"Sago? That's the name of your canyon, isn't it? And what kind of a flower? Is it pretty?"
"I think it the most exquisite in the world. Rare, rich, vivid. It blooms in the deep canyons in summer. I daresay you'll not stay long enough to see one."
"Phil, I never guessed you could be eloquent, or so good at blarney," she said, studying him gravely. "I'm beginning to believe there are unknown possibilities in you for good--and maybe evil, too."
"Sure. You can never tell what a man may do--or be driven to."
"Aren't you going to ask me to get down and come in?" she asked, archly.
"You must pardon my manners," he said, rising.
Janey slipped out of the saddle without accepting the hand he offered, and leading Patter to a near-by cedar she tied the bridle to a branch.
"I want to see your cave."
"It's pretty much of a climb."
"I suppose yesterday will stump you for some time," she replied. "Can't I have an off day once in a while without being considered a weakling? Come on, let's go."
Janey soon found that it was indeed a climb. Distances deceived her so strangely here in Arizona. There was a trail up to the cave, but it wound steep and rough, with many high steps from rock to rock. She was glad to accept Randolph's hand; and when they surmounted the slope she was breathless and hot. Randolph held her hand longer than necessary.
"Oh-h--Gee!" panted Janey, flopping down on a rock in the shade. "Some--climb."
"You made it without a stop," returned Randolph, admiringly. "Your heart and lungs are sure all right--if your mind is gone."
"Mr.--Randolph!"
"That's your father's assumption," said Randolph, dryly. "I don't exactly share it."
"Maybe I am--just a healthy--moron," laughed Janey, removing her sombrero. "Wouldn't it be fine--if the desert and you--developed me into a real woman?"
"Morons don't develop," he replied, ignoring her intimation.
Janey now took stock of the archaeologist's cave. It was an amazing cavern. She sat at the lower edge of the slope of its back wall, yet the vaulted roof, far overhead, reached out into the canyon. A dry, dusty, musty odor, not unpleasant, permeated the place. The debris from the walls and slopes was red and yellow. Far up Janey discerned the remains of walls. In the largest section a small black window, like a vacant eye, stared down at her. It gave her a queer sensation. Human eyes had gazed out of that window ages ago. She saw a trench near her, with pick and shovel lying where Randolph had thrown them.
"Mr. Randolph, were you in the war?" asked Janey, suddenly.
"Yes, a little while. Long enough to learn to dig. That's about the only real good the service did me," he replied, somewhat bitterly.
"You should be grateful. My friends who went to France came back no good. You certainly seem free of any injury."
"I am, I guess, except a twist in my mind. I only knew of it recently--last winter in fact."
"Indeed. And how does it affect you?" asked Janey, doubtfully.
"I think it developed a latent weakness for beauty."
"In nature?"
"Oh, no. I always had that. It must be in--woman."
"Any woman. Well, that is no weakness. It's a very commendable thing, and gives you a kinship with most men."
"Miss Endicott, I didn't say in any woman," returned Randolph, sharply. "Didn't you? Very well, it doesn't matter... Now, show me around the place and tell me all about your work."
Randolph had something on his mind. He did not seem natural. It was as if he had been compelled to be someone he was not. Janey half regretted that she had not encouraged him to tell more about the woman
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