on the faces of all
who opposed him—oh, yes, she knew all the hard names he had been
called. Yet she was not afraid of him. There was more than that in the
connotation of his name. Burning Daylight called up other things as well.
They were there in the newspapers, the magazines, and the books on the
Klondike. When all was said, Burning Daylight had a mighty connota-
tion—one to touch any woman's imagination, as it touched hers, the gate
between them, listening to the wistful and impassioned simplicity of his
speech. Dede was after all a woman, with a woman's sex-vanity, and it
was this vanity that was pleased by the fact that such a man turned in his
need to her.
And there was more that passed through her mind—sensations of
tiredness and loneliness; trampling squadrons and shadowy armies of
190
----------------------- Page 192-----------------------
vague feelings and vaguer prompting; and deeper and dimmer whisper-
ings and echoings, the flutterings of forgotten generations crystallized in-
to being and fluttering anew and always, undreamed and unguessed,
subtle and potent, the spirit and essence of life that under a thousand de-
ceits and masks forever makes for life. It was a strong temptation, just to
ride with this man in the hills. It would be that only and nothing more,
for she was firmly convinced that his way of life could never be her way.
On the other hand, she was vexed by none of the ordinary feminine fears
and timidities. That she could take care of herself under any and all cir-
cumstances she never doubted. Then why not? It was such a little thing,
after all.
She led an ordinary, humdrum life at best. She ate and slept and
worked, and that was about all. As if in review, her anchorite existence
passed before her: six days of the week spent in the office and in journey-
ing back and forth on the ferry; the hours stolen before bedtime for
snatches of song at the piano, for doing her own special laundering, for
sewing and mending and casting up of meagre accounts; the two even-
ings a week of social diversion she permitted herself; the other stolen
hours and Saturday afternoons spent with her brother at the hospital;
and the seventh day, Sunday, her day of solace, on Mab's back, out
among the blessed hills. But it was lonely, this solitary riding. Nobody of
her acquaintance rode. Several girls at the University had been per-
suaded into trying it, but after a Sunday or two on hired livery hacks
they had lost interest. There was Madeline, who bought her own horse
and rode enthusiastically for several months, only to get married and go
away to live in Southern California. After years of it, one did get tired of
this eternal riding alone.
He was such a boy, this big giant of a millionaire who had half the rich
men of San Francisco afraid of him. Such a boy! She had never imagined
this side of his nature.
"How do folks get married?" he was saying. "Why, number one, they
meet; number two, like each other's looks; number three, get acquainted;
and number four, get married or not, according to how they like each
other after getting acquainted. But how in thunder we're to have a
chance to find out whether we like each other enough is beyond my
savvee, unless we make that chance ourselves. I'd come to see you, call
on you, only I know you're just rooming or boarding, and that won't do."
Suddenly, with a change of mood, the situation appeared to Dede ri-
diculously absurd. She felt a desire to laugh—not angrily, not
another article：