y. In her hand
she carried the riding-quirt and the spurs which she had not had time
to leave behind. Her wide, soft gray hat was pushed back so that her
face was unhidden. And as she walked by her eyes rested for a fleeting
second upon the eyes of Greek Conniston.

Her cheeks were flushed rosily from her race, the warm, rich blood
creeping up to the untanned whiteness of her brow. But he did not
realize these details until she had gone by; not, in fact, until he
began to think of her. For in that quick flash he saw only her eyes.
And to this man who had known the prettiest women who drive on Fifth
Avenue and dine at Sherry's and wear wonderful gowns to the
Metropolitan these were different eyes. Their color was elusive, as
elusive as the vague tints upon the desert as dusk drifts over it;
like that calm tone of the desert resolved into a deep, unfathomable
gray, wonderfully soft, transcendently serene. And through the
indescribable color as through untroubled skies at dawn there shone
the light which made her, in some way which he could not entirely
grasp, different from the women he had known. He merely felt that
their light was softly eloquent of frankness and health and cleanness.
Their gaze was as steady and confident as her hand had been upon her
horse's reins.

"She must have been born in this wilderness, raised in it!" he mused,
when she had passed. "Her eyes are the eyes of a glorious young
animal, bred to the freedom of outdoors, a part of the wild, untamable
desert! And her manner is like the manner of a great lady born in a
palace!"

"Hey, Greek," Roger was saying, his droning voice coming unpleasantly
into the other's musings, "did you pipe that? Did you ever see
anything like her?"

Conniston lighted a fresh cigarette and turned again to look out
across the level gray miles. Ignoring his friend, Greek thought on,
idly telling himself that the Dream Girl should be born out here,
after all. Here she would have a soul; a soul as far-reaching, as
infinite, as free from shackles of convention as the wide bigness of
her cradle. And she would have eyes like that, drawing their very
shade from the vague grayness which seemed to him to spread over
everything.

"I say, Greek," Roger was insisting, sufficiently interested to sit up
straight, his cigarette dangling from his lip, "that little country
girl, dressed like a wild Indian, is pretty enough to be the belle of
the season! What do you think?"

Connist