“I know the bulliest little French restaurant tucked away in a side street just three blocks from here. The happiness disseminated in this world by that chef’s salads will some day carry him past St. Peter with no questions asked.” “You believe in salvation by works?” she parried, while she considered his invitation. “So will you after a trial of Alphonse’s salad.” “Am I to understand that I am being invited to a theological discussion of a heavenly salad concocted by Father Alphonse?” “That is about the specifications.” “Then I accept. For a week my conscience has condemned me for excess of frivolity. You offer me a chance to expiate without discomfort. That is my idea of heaven. I have always believed it a place where one pastures in rich meadows of pleasure, with penalties and consciences all excluded from its domains.” “You should start a church,” he laughed. “It would have a great following—especially if you could operate your heaven this side of the Styx.” She found his restaurant all he had claimed, and more. The little corner of old Paris set her eyes shining. The fittings were Parisian to the least detail. Even the waiter spoke no English. “But I don’t see how they make it pay. How did he happen to come here? Are there enough people that appreciate this kind of thing in Mesa to support it?” He smiled at her enthusiasm. “Hardly. The place has a scarce dozen of regular patrons. Hobart comes here a good deal. So does Eaton. But it doesn’t pay financially. You see, I know because I happen to own it. I used to eat at Alphonse’s restaurant in Paris. So I sent for him. It doesn’t follow that one has to be less a slave to the artificial comforts of a supercivilized world because one lives at Mesa.” “I see it doesn’t. You are certainly a wonderful man.” “Name anything you like. I’ll warrant Alphonse can make good if it is not outside of his national cuisine,” he boasted. She did not try his capacity to the limit, but the oysters, the salad, the chicken soup were delicious, with the ultimate perfection that comes only out of Gaul. They made a delightfully gay and intimate hour of it, and were still lingering over their demi-tasse when Yesler’s name was mentioned. “Isn’t it splendid that he’s doing so well?” cried the girl with enthusiasm. “The doctor says that if the bullet had gone a fraction of an inch lower, he would have died. Most men would have died anyhow, they say. It was his clean outdoor life and magnificent constitution that saved him.” “That’s what pulled him through,” he nodded. “It would have done his heart good to see how many friends he had. His recovery was a continuous performance ovation. It would have been a poorer world for a lot of people if Sam Yesler had crossed the divide.” “Yes. It would have been a very much poorer one for several I know.” He glanced shrewdly at her. “I’ve learned to look for a particular application when you wear that particularly sapient air of mystery.”