life at the office went on much the way it had always gone. never, by word or look, did they acknowledge that the situation was in any wise different from what it had always been. each sunday saw the arrangement made for the following sunday's ride; nor was this ever referred to in the office. daylight was fastidiously chivalrous on this point. he did not want to lose her from the office. the sight of her at her work was to him an undiminishing joy. nor did he abuse this by lingering over dictation or by devising extra work that would detain her longer before his eyes. but over and beyond such sheer selfishness of conduct was his love of fair play. he scorned to utilize the accidental advantages of the situation. somewhere within him was a higher appeasement of love than mere possession. he wanted to be loved for himself, with a fair field for both sides.

on the other hand, had he been the most artful of schemers he could not have pursued a wiser policy. bird-like in her love of individual freedom, the last woman in the world to be bullied in her affections, she keenly appreciated the niceness of his attitude. she did this consciously, but deeper than all consciousness, and intangible as gossamer, were the effects of this. all unrealizable, save for some supreme moment, did the web of daylight's personality creep out and around her. filament by filament, these secret and undreamable bonds were being established. they it was that could have given the cue to her saying yes when she had meant to say no. and in some such fashion, in some future crisis of greater moment, might she not, in violation of all dictates of sober judgment, give another unintentional consent?

among other good things resulting from his growing intimacy with dede, was daylight's not caring to drink so much as formerly. there was a lessening in desire for alcohol of which even he at last became aware. in a way she herself was the needed inhibition. the thought of her was like a cocktail. or, at any rate, she substituted for a certain percentage of cocktails. from the strain of his unnatural city existence and of his intense gambling operations, he had drifted on to the cocktail route. a wall must forever be built to give him easement from the high pitch, and dede became a part of this wall. her personality, her laughter, the intonations of her voice, the impossible golden glow of her eyes, the light on her hair, her form, her dress, her actions on horseback, her merest physical mannerisms—all, pictured over and over in his mind and dwelt upon, served to take the place of many a cocktail or long scotch and soda.

in spite of their high resolve, there was a very measurable degree of the furtive in their meetings. in essence, these meetings were stolen. they did not ride out brazenly together in the face of the world. on the contrary, they met always unobserved, she riding across the many-gated backroad from berkeley to meet him halfway. nor did they ride on any save unfrequented roads, preferring to cross the second range of hills and travel among a church-going farmer folk who would scarcely have recognized even daylight from his newspaper photographs.

he found dede a good horsewoman—good not merely in riding but in endurance. there were days when they covered sixty, seventy, and even eighty miles; nor did dede ever claim any day too long, nor—another strong recommendation to daylight—did the hardest day ever the slightest chafe of the chestnut sorrel's back. "a sure enough hummer," was daylight's stereotyped but ever enthusiastic verdict to himself.

they learned much of each other on these long, uninterrupted rides. they had nothing much to talk about but themselves, and, while she received a liberal education concerning arctic travel and gold-mining, he, in turn, touch by touch, painted an ever clearer portrait of her. she amplified the ranch life of her girlhood, prattling on about horses and dogs and persons and things until it was as if he saw the whole process of her growth and her becoming. all this he was able to trace on through the period of her father's failure and death, when she had been compelled to leave the university and go into office work. the brother, too, she spoke of, and of her long struggle to have him cured and of her now fading hopes. daylight decided that it was easier to come to an understanding of her than he had anticipated, though he was always aware that behind and under all he knew of her was the mysterious and baffling woman and sex. there, he was humble enough to confess to himself, was a chartless, shoreless sea, about which he knew nothing and which he must nevertheless somehow navigate.

his lifelong fear of woman had originated out of non-understanding and had also prevented him from reaching any understanding. dede on horseback, dede gathering poppies on a summer hillside, dede taking down dictation in her swift shorthand strokes—all this was comprehensible to him. but he did not know the dede who so quickly changed from mood to mood, the dede who refused steadfastly to ride with him and then suddenly consented, the dede in whose eyes the golden glow forever waxed and waned and whispered hints and messages that were not for his ears. in all such things he saw the glimmering profundities of sex, acknowledged their lure, and accepted them as incomprehensible.

there was another side of her, too, of which he was consciously ignorant. she knew the books, was possessed of that mysterious and awful thing called "culture." and yet, what continually surprised him was that this culture was never obtruded on their intercourse. she did not talk books, nor art, nor similar folderols. homely minded as he was himself, he found her almost equally homely minded. she liked the simple and the out-of-doors, the horses and the hills, the sunlight and the flowers. he found himself in a partly new flora, to which she was the guide, pointing out to him all the varieties of the oaks, making him acquainted with the madrono and the manzanita, teaching him the names, habits, and habitats of unending series of wild flowers, shrubs, and ferns. her keen woods eye was another delight to him. it had been trained in the open, and little escaped it. one day, as a test, they strove to see which could discover the greater number of birds' nests. and he, who had always prided himself on his own acutely trained observation, found himself hard put to keep his score ahead. at the end of the day he was but three nests in the lead, one of which she challenged stoutly and of which even he confessed serious doubt. he complimented her and told her that her success must be due to the fact that she was a bird herself, with all a bird's keen vision and quick-flashing ways.

the more he knew her the more he became convinced of this birdlike quality in her. that was why she liked to ride, he argued. it was the nearest approach to flying. a field of poppies, a glen of ferns, a row of poplars on a country lane, the tawny brown of a hillside, the shaft of sunlight on a distant peak—all such were provocative of quick joys which seemed to him like so many outbursts of song. her joys were in little things, and she seemed always singing. even in sterner things it was the same. when she rode bob and fought with that magnificent brute for mastery, the qualities of an eagle were uppermost in her.

these quick little joys of hers were sources of joy to him. he joyed in her joy, his eyes as excitedly fixed on her as hers were fixed on the object of her attention. also through her he came to a closer discernment and keener appreciation of nature. she showed him colors in the landscape that he would never have dreamed were there. he had known only the primary colors. all colors of red were red. black was black, and brown was just plain brown until it became yellow, when it was no longer brown. purple he had always imagined was red, something like blood, until she taught him better. once they rode out on a high hill brow where wind-blown poppies blazed about their horses' knees, and she was in an ecstasy over the lines of the many distances. seven, she counted, and he, who had gazed on landscapes all his life, for the first time learned what a "distance" was. after that, and always, he looked upon the face of nature with a more seeing eye, learning a delight of his own in surveying the serried ranks of the upstanding ranges, and in slow contemplation of the purple summer mists that haunted the languid creases of the distant hills.

but through it all ran the golden thread of love. at first he had been content just to ride with dede and to be on comradely terms with her; but the desire and the need for her increased. the more he knew of her, the higher was his appraisal. had she been reserved and haughty with him, or been merely a giggling, simpering creature of a woman, it would have been different. instead, she amazed him with her simplicity and wholesomeness, with her great store of comradeliness. this latter was the unexpected. he had never looked upon woman in that way. woman, the toy; woman, the harpy; woman, the necessary wife and mother of the race's offspring,—all this had been his expectation and understanding of woman. but woman, the comrade and playfellow and joyfellow—this was what dede had surprised him in. and the more she became worth while, the more ardently his love burned, unconsciously shading his voice with caresses, and with equal unconsciousness flaring up signal fires in his eyes. nor was she blind to it yet, like many women before her, she thought to play with the pretty fire and escape the consequent conflagration.

"winter will soon be coming on," she said regretfully, and with provocation, one day, "and then there won't be any more riding."

"but i must see you in the winter just the same," he cried hastily.

she shook her head.

"we have been very happy and all that," she said, looking at him with steady frankness. "i remember your foolish argument for getting acquainted, too; but it won't lead to anything; it can't. i know myself too well to be mistaken."

her face was serious, even solicitous with desire not to hurt, and her eyes were unwavering, but in them was the light, golden and glowing—the abyss of sex into which he was now unafraid to gaze.

"i've been pretty good," he declared. "i leave it to you if i haven't. it's been pretty hard, too, i can tell you. you just think it over. not once have i said a word about love to you, and me loving you all the time. that's going some for a man that's used to having his own way. i'm somewhat of a rusher when it comes to travelling. i reckon i'd rush god almighty if it came to a race over the ice. and yet i didn't rush you. i guess this fact is an indication of how much i do love you. of course i want you to marry me. have i said a word about it, though? nary a chirp, nary a flutter. i've been quiet and good, though it's almost made me sick at times, this keeping quiet. i haven't asked you to marry me. i'm not asking you now. oh, not but what you satisfy me. i sure know you're the wife for me. but how about myself? do you know me well enough know your own mind?" he shrugged his shoulders. "i don't know, and i ain't going to take chances on it now. you've got to know for sure whether you think you could get along with me or not, and i'm playing a slow conservative game. i ain't a-going to lose for overlooking my hand."

this was love-making of a sort beyond dede's experience. nor had she ever heard of anything like it. furthermore, its lack of ardor carried with it a shock which she could overcome only by remembering the way his hand had trembled in the past, and by remembering the passion she had seen that very day and every day in his eyes, or heard in his voice. then, too, she recollected what he had said to her weeks before: "maybe you don't know what patience is," he had said, and thereat told her of shooting squirrels with a big rifle the time he and elijah davis had starved on the stewart river.

"so you see," he urged, "just for a square deal we've got to see some more of each other this winter. most likely your mind ain't made up yet—"

"but it is," she interrupted. "i wouldn't dare permit myself to care for you. happiness, for me, would not lie that way. i like you, mr. harnish, and all that, but it can never be more than that."

"it's because you don't like my way of living," he charged, thinking in his own mind of the sensational joyrides and general profligacy with which the newspapers had credited him—thinking this, and wondering whether or not, in maiden modesty, she would disclaim knowledge of it.

to his surprise, her answer was flat and uncompromising.

"no; i don't."

"i know i've been brash on some of those rides that got into the papers," he began his defense, "and that i've been travelling with a lively crowd."

"i don't mean that," she said, "though i know about it too, and can't say that i like it. but it is your life in general, your business. there are women in the world who could marry a man like you and be happy, but i couldn't. and the more i cared for such a man, the more unhappy i should be. you see, my unhappiness, in turn, would tend to make him unhappy. i should make a mistake, and he would make an equal mistake, though his would not be so hard on him because he would still have his business."

"business!" daylight gasped. "what's wrong with my business? i play fair and square. there's nothing under hand about it, which can't be said of most businesses, whether of the big corporations or of the cheating, lying, little corner-grocerymen. i play the straight rules of the game, and i don't have to lie or cheat or break my word."

dede hailed with relief the change in the conversation and at the same time the opportunity to speak her mind.

"in ancient greece," she began pedantically, "a man was judged a good citizen who built houses, planted trees—" she did not complete the quotation, but drew the conclusion hurriedly. "how many houses have you built? how many trees have you planted?"

he shook his head noncommittally, for he had not grasped the drift of the argument.

"well," she went on, "two winters ago you cornered coal—"

"just locally," he grinned reminiscently, "just locally. and i took advantage of the car shortage and the strike in british columbia."

"but you didn't dig any of that coal yourself. yet you forced it up four dollars a ton and made a lot of money. that was your business. you made the poor people pay more for their coal. you played fair, as you said, but you put your hands down into all their pockets and took their money away from them. i know. i burn a grate fire in my sitting-room at berkeley. and instead of eleven dollars a ton for rock wells, i paid fifteen dollars that winter. you robbed me of four dollars. i could stand it. but there were thousands of the very poor who could not stand it. you might call it legal gambling, but to me it was downright robbery."

daylight was not abashed. this was no revelation to him. he remembered the old woman who made wine in the sonoma hills and the millions like her who were made to be robbed.

"now look here, miss mason, you've got me there slightly, i grant. but you've seen me in business a long time now, and you know i don't make a practice of raiding the poor people. i go after the big fellows. they're my meat. they rob the poor, and i rob them. that coal deal was an accident. i wasn't after the poor people in that, but after the big fellows, and i got them, too. the poor people happened to get in the way and got hurt, that was all.

"don't you see," he went on, "the whole game is a gamble. everybody gambles in one way or another. the farmer gambles against the weather and the market on his crops. so does the united states steel corporation. the business of lots of men is straight robbery of the poor people. but i've never made that my business. you know that. i've always gone after the robbers."

"i missed my point," she admitted. "wait a minute."

and for a space they rode in silence.

"i see it more clearly than i can state it, but it's something like this. there is legitimate work, and there's work that—well, that isn't legitimate. the farmer works the soil and produces grain. he's making something that is good for humanity. he actually, in a way, creates something, the grain that will fill the mouths of the hungry."

"and then the railroads and market-riggers and the rest proceed to rob him of that same grain,"—daylight broke in dede smiled and held up her hand.

"wait a minute. you'll make me lose my point. it doesn't hurt if they rob him of all of it so that he starves to death. the point is that the wheat he grew is still in the world. it exists. don't you see? the farmer created something, say ten tons of wheat, and those ten tons exist. the railroads haul the wheat to market, to the mouths that will eat it. this also is legitimate. it's like some one bringing you a glass of water, or taking a cinder out of your eye. something has been done, in a way been created, just like the wheat."

"but the railroads rob like sam scratch," daylight objected.

"then the work they do is partly legitimate and partly not. now we come to you. you don't create anything. nothing new exists when you're done with your business. just like the coal. you didn't dig it. you didn't haul it to market. you didn't deliver it. don't you see? that's what i meant by planting the trees and building the houses. you haven't planted one tree nor built a single house."

"i never guessed there was a woman in the world who could talk business like that," he murmured admiringly. "and you've got me on that point. but there's a lot to be said on my side just the same. now you listen to me. i'm going to talk under three heads. number one: we live a short time, the best of us, and we're a long time dead. life is a big gambling game. some are born lucky and some are born unlucky. everybody sits in at the table, and everybody tries to rob everybody else. most of them get robbed. they're born suckers.

"fellow like me comes along and sizes up the proposition. i've got two choices. i can herd with the suckers, or i can herd with the robbers. as a sucker, i win nothing. even the crusts of bread are snatched out of my mouth by the robbers. i work hard all my days, and die working. and i ain't never had a flutter. i've had nothing but work, work, work. they talk about the dignity of labor. i tell you there ain't no dignity in that sort of labor. my other choice is to herd with the robbers, and i herd with them. i play that choice wide open to win. i get the automobiles, and the porterhouse steaks, and the soft beds.

"number two: there ain't much difference between playing halfway robber like the railroad hauling that farmer's wheat to market, and playing all robber and robbing the robbers like i do. and, besides, halfway robbery is too slow a game for me to sit in. you don't win quick enough for me."

"but what do you want to win for?" dede demanded. "you have millions and millions, already. you can't ride in more than one automobile at a time, sleep in more than one bed at a time."

"number three answers that," he said, "and here it is: men and things are so made that they have different likes. a rabbit likes a vegetarian diet. a lynx likes meat. ducks swim; chickens are scairt of water. one man collects postage stamps, another man collects butterflies. this man goes in for paintings, that man goes in for yachts, and some other fellow for hunting big game. one man thinks horse-racing is it, with a big i, and another man finds the biggest satisfaction in actresses. they can't help these likes. they have them, and what are they going to do about it? now i like gambling. i like to play the game. i want to play it big and play it quick. i'm just made that way. and i play it."

"but why can't you do good with all your money?"

daylight laughed.

"doing good with your money! it's like slapping god in the face, as much as to tell him that he don't know how to run his world and that you'll be much obliged if he'll stand out of the way and give you a chance. thinking about god doesn't keep me sitting up nights, so i've got another way of looking at it. ain't it funny, to go around with brass knuckles and a big club breaking folks' heads and taking their money away from them until i've got a pile, and then, repenting of my ways, going around and bandaging up the heads the other robbers are breaking? i leave it to you. that's what doing good with money amounts to. every once in a while some robber turns soft-hearted and takes to driving an ambulance. that's what carnegie did. he smashed heads in pitched battles at homestead, regular wholesale head-breaker he was, held up the suckers for a few hundred million, and now he goes around dribbling it back to them. funny? i leave it to you."

he rolled a cigarette and watched her half curiously, half amusedly. his replies and harsh generalizations of a harsh school were disconcerting, and she came back to her earlier position.

"i can't argue with you, and you know that. no matter how right a woman is, men have such a way about them well, what they say sounds most convincing, and yet the woman is still certain they are wrong. but there is one thing—the creative joy. call it gambling if you will, but just the same it seems to me more satisfying to create something, make something, than just to roll dice out of a dice-box all day long. why, sometimes, for exercise, or when i've got to pay fifteen dollars for coal, i curry mab and give her a whole half hour's brushing. and when i see her coat clean and shining and satiny, i feel a satisfaction in what i've done. so it must be with the man who builds a house or plants a tree. he can look at it. he made it. it's his handiwork. even if somebody like you comes along and takes his tree away from him, still it is there, and still did he make it. you can't rob him of that, mr. harnish, with all your millions. it's the creative joy, and it's a higher joy than mere gambling. haven't you ever made things yourself—a log cabin up in the yukon, or a canoe, or raft, or something? and don't you remember how satisfied you were, how good you felt, while you were doing it and after you had it done?"

while she spoke his memory was busy with the associations she recalled. he saw the deserted flat on the river bank by the klondike, and he saw the log cabins and warehouses spring up, and all the log structures he had built, and his sawmills working night and day on three shifts.

"why, dog-gone it, miss mason, you're right—in a way. i've built hundreds of houses up there, and i remember i was proud and glad to see them go up. i'm proud now, when i remember them. and there was ophir—the most god-forsaken moose-pasture of a creek you ever laid eyes on. i made that into the big ophir. why, i ran the water in there from the rinkabilly, eighty miles away. they all said i couldn't, but i did it, and i did it by myself. the dam and the flume cost me four million. but you should have seen that ophir—power plants, electric lights, and hundreds of men on the pay-roll, working night and day. i guess i do get an inkling of what you mean by making a thing. i made ophir, and by god, she was a sure hummer—i beg your pardon. i didn't mean to cuss. but that ophir!—i sure am proud of her now, just as the last time i laid eyes on her."

"and you won something there that was more than mere money," dede encouraged. "now do you know what i would do if i had lots of money and simply had to go on playing at business? take all the southerly and westerly slopes of these bare hills. i'd buy them in and plant eucalyptus on them. i'd do it for the joy of doing it anyway; but suppose i had that gambling twist in me which you talk about, why, i'd do it just the same and make money out of the trees. and there's my other point again. instead of raising the price of coal without adding an ounce of coal to the market supply, i'd be making thousands and thousands of cords of firewood—making something where nothing was before. and everybody who ever crossed on the ferries would look up at these forested hills and be made glad. who was made glad by your adding four dollars a ton to rock wells?"

it was daylight's turn to be silent for a time while she waited an answer.

"would you rather i did things like that?" he asked at last.

"it would be better for the world, and better for you," she answered noncommittally.