But I don't
tell you that to bid for thanks. I did it because I was too infatuated
with the work itself to think of going to bed. These things I send are
crude. I am going to try to become what they call--don't they?--an
'artist photographer.' When I can give myself a medal for my
achievements, I'll take some better pictures for you, of the house and
garden, and of the Mission and other places in the neighborhood of your
old home if you would like to have them. Of course it interests me
immensely to know that you once lived here."

The last sentence Denin added after a long moment of hesitation. It
seemed brutal not to protest against that humble supposition of
Barbara's that her past ownership of the Mirador would be unimportant
to him. But what he burned to say was so much more, that the few
conventional words he dared to dole out looked churlish in black and
white. Still, he had to let them stand.

After these letters, which crossed, the woman in England and the man in
California caught the habit of writing to one another oftener than
before--and differently. They did not wait for something definite to
answer, for their thoughts so rushed to meet each other that it seemed
as if they knew by wireless what was best to say each time. Often what
they said might have read commonplacely to an outsider, for now they
told each other the little things of every-day life. After her first
outburst of confidence and confession, Barbara did not again for many
weeks refer directly to Trevor d'Arcy. But Denin thought that he
understood, and felt his veins fill full with a sudden jerk, as do
those of a man electrocuted, when he read, "I am rather desperate
to-day:" or, "To keep myself from going all to pieces, just now, I
turned my thoughts off my own life, as you turn a tap, and sent them to
your garden--my old garden of the Mirador. I strolled there with you,
and you consoled me. It was evening. We were in the pergola (Father's
old head gardener used to call it the 'paragolla'), and I forgot the
iron grayness here that weighs down my spirit. Over you and me, as we
talked, glittered my old, loved stars of California. And the pergola
with its velvet drapery of leaves and flowers, and the three dark
cypresses barring the sea view at one end, was like a corridor hung
with illuminated tapestry 'come alive.' You can't think how real it was
for a few minutes, walking there and hearing your generous words of
comfort, like magic balm on