There was a profound silence in the small room. The runners of a sleigh scraped the icy street below, its horses' hoofs cracked noisily. The music of a fiddle sounded in the distance. Babe's voice humming a waltz tune rose from the second story. "A barmaid?" asked Sheila breathlessly. She got up from her chair and walked over to the window. The moon was already high. Over there, beckoning, stood her mountain and her star. It was all so shining and pure and still. "That's what you want me to be--your barmaid?" "Yes'm," said Sylvester humbly. "Don't make up your mind in a hurry, Miss Sheila. Wait till I tell you more about it. It's--it's a kind of dream of mine. I think it'd come close to breaking me up if you turned down the proposition. The Aura's not an ordin-ar-y bar and I'm not an ordin-ar-y man, and, say, Miss Sheila, you're not an ordin-ar-y girl." "Is that why you want me to work in your saloon?" said Sheila, staring at the star. "Yes'm. That's why. Let me tell you that I've searched this continent for a girl to fit my ideal. That's what it is, girl--my ideal. That bar of mine has got to be perfect. It's near to perfect now. I want when that Englishman comes back to Millings to hear him say, 'It's perfect' ... no 'all but,' you notice. Why, miss, I could 'a' got a hundred ordin-ar-y girls, lookers too. The world's full of lookers." "Why didn't you offer your--'job' to Babe or Girlie?" Sylvester laughed. "Well, girl, as a matter of fact, I did." "You did?" Sheila turned back and faced him. There was plenty of color in her cheeks now. Her narrow eyes were widely opened. Astonishingly large and clear they were, when she so opened them. "Yes'm." Sylvester glanced aside for an instant. "And what did they say?" "They balked," Sylvester admitted calmly. "They're fine girls, Miss Sheila. And they're lookers. But they just aren't quite fine enough. They're not artists, like your Poppa and like you--and like me." Sheila put a hand up to her cheek. Her eyes came back to their accustomed narrowness and a look of doubt stole into her face. "Artists?"