Then: “That is why you are so different. In the East the boys are so--well, so artificial!” “Huh?” said Maurie vaguely. “That so?” “But you are like your own wild west! with a heart as big as your mountain-desert and as open as your skies!” The arm of Maurie tightened. She felt his breath coming quickly against her hair, and she thought of the spilled coffee and the “damnation!” of earlier in that same evening. Life was sweet indeed! “What makes you so unusual, Mr. Gordon?” Once, twice her lips stirred before the words came. “It’s a hard life on the range. It takes a strong man to get by.” “You look strong, Mr. Gordon.” Laughter makes the voice purr, and there was a caress in the tone of Jacqueline. He stiffened, throwing his shoulders back. “In a pinch I’ve done a man’s work,” he said modestly. “I’ve heard about men who can take a steer by the horns and wrestle until they throw the big animal--but I suppose that is just western joking?” “Nope. I don’t think nothin’ at all of throwin’ a steer.” “Oh! And aren’t you afraid of--of their nasty horns?” She stammered with admiration and wonder. “I was brung up to take chances. Throwin’ a steer ain’t much--for a man like me. You see, I got the size for it. A feller needs weight on the range.” “But some of these cow-punchers seem quite slender.” “Yep. But they don’t count much for a real man’s work. Take Carrigan, over there. I guess he’s a pretty fair sort when it comes to gettin’ around, but he ain’t got the weight. I guess he weighs about twenty pounds less’n I do.” “Do you know that I feel--but you would think me foolish if I said it!” “Lady--Miss--Miss Silvestre, you c’n lay ten to one I won’t think anything you say is foolish!” “Well, then, I feel as if you are the only _real_ man I have ever known.” “Honest?” said the deep, quivering voice. “Yes. The rest I cannot understand. I--I stifle among them!” “You ain’t stringin’ me along?” “What other men say are merely words. But such a man as you are, speaks from the heart. I know! I could believe you!” “Miss Silvestre--” “Isn’t it usual in the West to be called by first names?” There was a sound of choking. Her wide, wondering eyes raised to his. “Or is it wrong, Mr. Gordon? To be called by one’s given name seems to me--freedom!” “My name’s Maurie.” The hoarseness of his voice was the music of the spheres. “And mine is Jacqueline.” “It’s a wonderful name!” “Say it.” “Jacqueline!” She looked up with childish curiosity. “I have never heard it spoken that way before. It seems--it seems to me free--like your own wild west!” “Ain’t you been free?” Her head fell. Her left hand pressed his in her effort to keep back the bubbling laughter. He returned the grip with a mighty interest. “I have lived all my life in a convent!” He started. “I thought you was hangin’ out along Fifth Avenue?” It was a close squeeze. She blessed a sudden thundering on the slide trombone. All fat men have kind hearts, she decided.