Carey shook his head slowly. He spoke carefully, as one would explain a difficult problem to a child. Jac was making the second circuit of the hall with Craig. She had reached the point: “But don’t westerners as a rule call each other by the given name, Mr. Craig?” “She’s had a sad life, Maurie,” said Carey, his eyes following the graceful vision in green. “You, with your bringin’ up, you couldn’t understand how to take to a swell girl like--” He stopped, stiffening, and changed of face. “I guess that’ll hold you, Maurie. Did you see her smile at me?” “Smile at you?” said Maurie with unutterable scorn. “Why, you poor sawed-off runt, that was all for me. She smiled at me like that before. They’ve tried to--to--bury her in the West, but she’s found--” “One real man!” “Me!” said Maurie. The music stopped. “Maurie, aside from bein’ a little thick in the head, you’re a pretty straight feller in most ways. I don’t want to see you make no fool out of yourself.” The smile of big Gordon came from an infinite distance, from a height of almost sacred compassion. “Jacqueline and me,” he said softly, “we understand. She’s led a sad--what the hell!” For as the dancers returned to their chairs, Harry During, lurching across the floor, stopped in front of Jacqueline. He had found it difficult to get dancing partners that evening and for consolation and excitement he had retreated to the bar and attended seriously and conscientiously to the matter of quenching his thirst. That thirst was deep-seated and it had taken him a long time to reach the seat of the dryness. Now, however, he had become convinced that he had done his duty by his parched insides, and he started toward the door to take horse and ride home. On the way a vision crossed his path--a vision in green, with a floating mist of dainty coloring over her shoulders. He paused to admire. He remained to stare. If he had been sober he would have resumed his course with a shrug of the shoulders. But he was not sober. There was a film across his eyes and a mighty music swelling within him. Reason was gone, and only instinct remained. But the eyes of instinct are far surer thar the eyes of reason. He moved closer with a shambling step. He leaned over his sister. “It’s Jac!” He burst into Homeric laughter. Ben Craig rose slowly, a dangerous man and a known man in the mountain-desert. Even through the mists of “red-eye,” Harry During sobered a little under the crushing pressure of the hand which fell on his shoulder. He pointed, grinning for sympathy. “Look!” he said. “Ain’t it funny? That’s my shister! That’s Jac!” Craig turned for an instant’s glance at Jac. She had not changed color. There was a grave but impersonal sympathy in her steady eyes. She said: “Please don’t hurt the poor fellow--Ben!” Craig turned back to Harry. “It’s a disgrace,” he said, “to let a drunk like you wander around insultin’ helpless girls. By God, it’s got to stop.” “My own shister--” protested Harry weakly.