In these Sunday afternoon talks Isabel could be abstract or concrete as occasion demanded. What time the young man dwelt overmuch on railway matters, she found it convenient to be able to look over his shoulder at the mighty panorama unrolled and unrolling itself in endless transformation scenes against the western horizon. And when Antrim, finding himself ignored, would come back from things practical to things personal, she had but to close her eyes to the scenic background and to open them again upon the personality of her companion. Conceding nothing to what he was pleased to call her artistic fad, Antrim was willing to condone Isabel’s indifference to railway affairs. His business was a part, the greater part, of his life, but he could understand why Judge Langford’s daughter, as such, might easily weary of railway shop talk. True, there had been more or less of it all along in the old days in Tennessee, when the judge was counsel for the railway company of which Antrim’s father was the superintendent; but that was because the Langfords and Antrims dwelt side by side and were friends as well as neighbours. Here in Colorado it was different. The judge was an invalid--a migrant for health’s sake, with gear sufficient to make him independent of railway counsellorships, and with little left of his former connection save a pocketful of annual passes and a warm affection for the son of his old friend the superintendent. None the less, Antrim thought that Isabel might bear with him now and then, if only for the reason that she would at some time begin to eat the bread and meat of railway service and so continue to the end of the chapter. This, indeed, he had the temerity to say to her one Sunday afternoon some weeks after his return from the exile of division duty at Voltamo. By which it will be seen that Antrim was a very young man, and as yet no more than a novice in the fine art of love-making. “I do take an interest in your affairs, Harry; you know I do. I am glad to see you succeeding in something you really like. But I wish”--she stopped, and let her gaze go beyond him--“I wish you wouldn’t always talk as if--” She paused again, and Antrim finished the protest for her: “As if my prospects and your future were one and the same thing, you mean?” “Yes; it stirs me up and makes me feel resentful. I know I can’t paint very much yet, but that is no reason why I shouldn’t attain by and by, is it?” “None in the world. It’s only when you side-track me for art that I get restive. No man could be patient under that. Besides, you are never going to be a bachelor of art; you are going to be married to me, and then you can paint for fun as much as you like.” Isabel’s retort was emphasized by a piquant little grimace of defiance: “That is what you have been telling me ever since I can remember. I didn’t mind it so much in the boy and girl stage; but when you say such things now, it only makes it more than ever impossible.” “Why does it?”