ather full
of his own pleasure just then.

They closed the door of the boudoir behind them after they had completed
their inspection, and at another door Harboro paused impressively.

"This," he said, pushing the door open wide, "is the guest-chamber."

It would have been small wonder if Sylvia had felt suddenly cold as she
crossed that threshold. Certainly she seemed a little strange as she stood
with her back to Harboro and aimlessly took in the capacious bed and the
few other simple articles.

"The guest-chamber?" she echoed presently, turning toward him.

"We'll have guests occasionally--after a while. Friends of yours from San
Antonio, perhaps, or fellows I've known all the way from here to the City.
We shouldn't want them to go to a hotel, should we? I mean, if they were
people we really cared for?"

"I hadn't thought," she answered.

She went to the window and looked out; but the gray sands, pallid under
the night sky, did not afford a soothing picture. She turned to Harboro
almost as if she were a stranger to him. "Have you many friends?" she
asked.

"Oh, no!--not enough to get in my way, you know. I've never had much of a
chance for friendships--not for a good many years. But I ought to have a
better chance now. I've thought you'd be able to help me in that way."

She did not linger in the room, and Harboro got the idea that she did not
like to think of their sharing their home with outsiders. He understood
that, too. "Of course we're going to be by ourselves for a long time to
come. There shall not be any guests until you feel you'd like to have
them." Then, as her eyes still harbored a shadow, he exclaimed gaily:
"We'll pretend that we haven't any guest-chamber at all!" And taking a
bunch of keys from his pocket he locked the door with a decisive
movement.

On the way down the hall they passed their bedroom. "This room you've
seen," he said, "our room. But you have not seen the balcony yet."

He was plainly confident that the balcony would make a pleasant impression
upon her. He opened yet another door, and they stepped out under the night
sky.

The thing had been planned with certain poetic or romantic values in mind.
Standing on the balcony you were looking toward the Rio Grande--and
Mexico. And you seemed pretty high. There was the dull silver of the
river, and the line of lights along the bridge, and beyond the huddled,
dark structures of Piedras Negras. You might have imagined yourself on t