And Bertie, who was still worse, the very princess of all the tight little snobs you ever knew! Bertie went round with the younger set, and these likewise knew everything, but without having to wait for anyone to tell them. Bertie had condescended to visit one of her father’s oil wells now and then, and there she had noted a race of lower beings at their appointed tasks—creatures smudged with black, who tipped their caps to her, or forgot to, but in either case stared with dumb awe, and beneath their lowering brows showed signs of intelligence that was almost human, and filled Bertie with uneasiness. She had visited Paradise once, and spent a night at the cabin, and patronized Paul and Ruth while they waited upon her, and both of them, sensing this, had been frozen to silence, and Bertie had condescended to admit that they were very decent working people, but she couldn’t comprehend why her brother persisted in making intimates of such. “My God,” stormed Bunny, in a rage, “what are we?” And that, of course, was disgusting of him—to remind his sister that their father had been driving mule-teams in a construction camp once upon a not very long time, and why was it any better to drive mules than to build houses? Bertie said with dignity that her father had raised himself by innate superiority; she knew he had “good blood,” even though she could not prove it. Bunny answered that Paul and Ruth might have “good blood” too, and they were certainly on the way to raising themselves. It was a subject about which the two would never cease to quarrel. Bertie insisted that Paul patronized her brother, and presumed upon his good nature, taking towards him an intolerable attitude of superiority. Paul had taken to calling him “son,” as he heard Dad doing, and such impudence was that! Bertie referred to her brother’s friend as “your old Paul;” and, said Bertie, “your old Paul has gone and turned traitor to Dad, and it’s just what I told you all along, you can’t trust such people.” And when Bertie found that Bunny was half-heartedly sympathizing with Paul, and yearning towards the “mob” himself, she called him a perfect little wretch, an ingrate, and what not. Their father was risking his life, staying up there among those outlaw mobs, something which none of the other operators did—they remained in their offices in Angel City, and let their agents break the strike for them. But Dad, of course, was influenced by Bunny, with his silly, sentimental notions; and if anything were to happen to him up there, Bunny would carry the responsibility all his life.