coming on in the serene, clear beauty of the mountains:
the distant peaks glowed like great opals in the sundown hues; there
was an indescribable sweetness in the air, something magical in the
soft but cold night breeze that began to pour down upon the valley
from the eternal snows.

Timidly, out of the corner of her eye, Marion glanced at Haig, and saw
that he was gazing steadily at the changing colors on the distant
range. But there was no beauty for her in that perfect panorama. The
fire had gone out of her, and she was shivering. He must have felt her
movement, for suddenly he leaned forward, lifted the edge of the heavy
lap-robe that had lain neglected at their feet, and tucked it around
her. She drew back with a quick intake of breath as his face was for
an instant close to her own. A moment later he began to speak in a
tone that surprised and encouraged her, so little did it resemble the
tones he had employed before. It was as if nothing had happened, as if
they had long been talking of things casual, impersonal to them both.

"It's different in the San Luis," he said. "There's red down there.
Nature's palette is a little short of red in this valley. Too much
blue. Even nature sometimes gets a one-color obsession, like the
painters. Here she's gone off on blue. It's the most dangerous color.
Darwin says it was the last color produced in nature's laboratory.
Ordinarily it's the least common in flowers and birds and insects.
Hearn--Have you read Lafcadio Hearn? No? But you ought to, that is, if
you care for such things. He goes after blue--the misuse of it. He
says it's the color most pleasureable to the eye in its purest
intensity. But you mustn't dab it on. A blue house is a crime. Blue's
overdone here too, blue sky, blue mists, blue shadows, blue lakes,
blue flowers,--anemones, harebells, columbines and the rest. It's a
relief to get into the reds of the San Luis--"

"Where Sunnysides came from!" interrupted Marion, eager despite her
misery.

"Yes."

"Tell me about him, please!"

She wanted him to continue in that strain, and even Sunnysides was a
less dangerous subject than--another.

"Well, about Sangre de Cristo first. That's a great range that stands
up high and white along the east. Sangre de Cristo is Spanish for
Blood of Christ. I can see those pious old rascal adventurers
uncovering their blessed heads when they first glimpsed it. At sunset
it takes the color--not always, not often, in fact, pe