The one man that he was on fairly intimate terms with, yet to whom Mar had not mentioned the new craze, was Cheviot. It was the kind of thing he would be certain to scoff at. People at the San Joaquin had noticed that scoffing at the Klondike annoyed Mr. Mar, and they wondered a little. Mar had quite made up his mind not to give Cheviot’s skepticism a chance for expression. If you were unwary you might easily think, “So sympathetic and understanding a young man can’t help taking fire over this burning question.” And then Cheviot would show you how easily he could help it. Watch him playing with his little nephews and nieces and you’d say, “So kind to children, he will be kind to the childishness in me.” And behold he wasn’t. He was an “awfully good fellow,” but he expected a man to be grown up—and few are. Mar’s anticipation of what would be Cheviot’s views about the new craze were very much Hildegarde’s own. Her astonishment was therefore well-nigh speechless, when, on the occasion of his next visit, after ten minutes’ general conversation in the garden, Cheviot said, “By the way, Hildegarde, I’ve come to tell you I’m going to the Klondike.” “You!” and she stared at him in silence till she could reassure herself by saying, “Nonsense!” “It may be nonsense, but I’m going.” “You _can’t_ be in earnest!” “Quite.” She stood, watering-pot in hand, her big eyes wider than ever he had seen them, and a look on her face certainly disturbed, even annoyed. It wasn’t very nice, this feeling as if the bottom were dropping out of existence. He had no right to make her feel like that. Very neatly he switched off the head of a withered flower with his stick, and began, “The Klondike—” “It’s rather horrid of you,” Hildegarde interrupted, “but of course I know—you—you’re only seeing how I’d take it—” “I shan’t be here to see how you’ll take it.” She set down the watering can. “You surely won’t dream of doing anything so foolish—so—so—dangerous.” He didn’t answer, and she walked beside him down the path to the lower gate. When they got beyond the group of conifers, she stopped. “You simply mustn’t.” “Why do you say that? You don’t care where I go.” “You know quite well I do.” He didn’t even look at her, and he shook his head. Then, after a little pause, “Who knows, you might even come to feel differently about things—if—if—” “Do you mean”—Hildegarde drew herself up—“if you came home a millionaire?” “If I didn’t come home at all.” “What?” “At least for a long time, like—” “I certainly hope”—nervously she forestalled the utterance of that other name—“that you won’t do anything so disappointing to all your old friends. It’s the kind of fortune-hunting expedition for the ne’er-do-well. It isn’t for a man like you.” “Well, I’ve thought it over,” he said, “and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m best out of Valdivia for a time. You see, Hildegarde, you’re too used to me.” “I’m _not_ ‘too used.’”