"Well," she explained, still doing things to the camera, "Beryl came out here yesterday, and made a sketch of the divide; I just happened to see her putting it away. So I made her tell me where she got that view-point, and I wanted her to come with me, so I could get a snap shot; it _is_ pretty, from here. But she went over to the mines with Mr. Weaver, and I had to come alone. Beryl likes to be around those dirty mines--but I can't bear it. And, now I'm here, something's gone wrong with the thing, so I can't wind the film. Do you know how to fix it, Ellie?" I didn't, and I told her so, in a word. Edith pouted again--she has a pretty mouth that looks well all tied up in a knot, and I have a slight suspicion that she knows it--and said that a fellow who could take an automobile all to pieces and put it together again ought to be able to fix a kodak. That's the way some women reason, I believe--just as though cars and kodaks are twin brothers. Our conversation, as I remember it now, was decidedly flat and dull. I kept thinking of Beryl being there the day before--and I never knew; of her being off somewhere to-day with that Weaver fellow--and I knew it and couldn't do a thing. I hardly know which was the more unpleasant to dwell upon, but I do know that it made me mighty poor company for Edith. I sat there on a near-by rock and lighted cigarettes, only to let them go out, and glowered at King's Highway, off across the flat, as if it were the mouth of the bottomless pit. I can't wonder that Edith called me a bear, and asked me repeatedly if I had toothache, or anything. By and by she had her kodak in working order again, and took two or three pictures of the divide. Edith is very pretty, I believe, and looks her best in short walking-costume. I wondered why she had not ridden out to the butte; Beryl had, the time I met her there, I remembered. She had a deep-chested blue roan that looked as if he could run, and I had noticed that she wore the divided skirt, which is so popular among women who ride. I don't, as a rule, notice much what women have on--but Beryl King's feet are altogether too small for the least observant man to pass over. Edith's feet were well shod, but commonplace. "I wish you'd let me have one of those pictures when they're done," I told her, as amiably as I could. She pushed back a lock of hair. "I'll send you one, if you like, when I get home. What address do you claim, in this wilderness?" I wrote it down for her and went my way, feeling a badly used young man, with a strong inclination to quarrel with fate. Edith had managed, during her well-meant efforts at entertaining me, to couple Mr. Weaver's name all too frequently with that of her cousin. I found it very depressing--a good many things, in fact, were depressing that day.