erstand that it would be better to keep his distance.

The days grew shorter and the mornings colder. As the weeks passed the
approach of winter began to push autumn back. Once or twice there was an
inch of snow in the night that melted within a few hours. The Farquhar
party began to talk of getting back to London, but there was an
impending consolidation of properties that held the men at Goldbanks.
For a month it had been understood that they would be leaving in a few
days now, but the deal on hand was of such importance that it was felt
best to stay until it was effected.

One afternoon Moya and Joyce rode out from the canon where the ugly
little town lay huddled and followed the road down into the foothills.
It was a day of sunshine, but back of the mountains hung a cloud that
had been pushing slowly forward. In it the peaks were already lost. The
great hills looked as if the knife of a Titan had sheered off their
summits.

The young women came to a bit of level and cantered across the mesa in a
race. They had left the road to find wild flowers for Lady Jim.

Joyce, in a flush of physical well-being, drew up from the gallop and
called back in gay derision to her friend.

"Oh, you slow-pokes! We win. Don't we, Two Step?" And she patted the
neck of her pony with a little gloved hand.

Moya halted beside the dainty beauty and laughed slowly, showing in two
even rows the tips of small strong teeth.

"Of course you win. You're always off with a hurrah before one knows
what's on. Nobody else has a chance."

The victor flashed a saucy glance at her. "I like to win. It's more
fun."

"Yes, it's more fun, but----"

"But what?"

"I was thinking that it's no fun for the loser."

"That's his lookout," came the swift retort. "Nobody makes him play."

Moya did not answer. She was thinking how Joyce charged the batteries of
men's emotions by the slow look of her deep eyes, by the languorous turn
of her head, by the enthralment of her grace.

"I wouldn't have your conscience for worlds, Moya. I don't want to be so
dreadfully proper until I'm old and ugly," Joyce continued, pouting.

"Lady Jim is always complaining because I'm not proper enough," laughed
Moya. "She's forever holding you up to me as an example."

"So I am. Of course I flirt. I always shall. But I'll not come a
cropper. I'll never let my flirtations interfere with business. Lady Jim
knows that."

Moya looked straight at her. "Were you ever in love