She gazed up at him with a puzzled little frown. "What bothers me is that you understand me and my life so well, while I scarcely understand you or yours at all. That seems to tell me that I am unsuited to you in some way. Why, when you told me that story of your hardships and all that, I listened as if it were a play or a book, but really it didn't _mean_ anything to me or stir me as it should. I can't understand my own failure to understand. That awful country, those barbarous people, the suffering, the cold, the snow, the angry sea; I don't grasp what they mean. I was never cold, or hungry, or exhausted. I--well, it is fascinating to hear about, because you went through it, but _why_ you did it, how you _felt_"--she made a gesture as if at a loss for words. "Do you see what I am trying to convey?" "Perfectly," he answered, releasing her with a little unadmitted sense of disappointment at his heart. "I suppose it is only natural." "I do hope you succeed this time," she continued. "I am growing deadly tired of things. Not tired of waiting for you, but I am getting to be old; I am, indeed. Why, at times I actually have an inclination to do fancy-work--the unfailing symptom. Do you realize that I am _twenty-five years old!_" "Age of decrepitude! And more glorious than any woman in the world!" he cried. There was a click outside the library door, and the room, which unnoticed by them had become nearly dark, was suddenly flooded with light. The portieres parted, and Wayne Wayland stood in the opening. "Ah, here you are, my boy! Hawkins told me you had returned." He advanced to shake the young man's hand, his demeanor gracious and hearty. "Welcome home. You have been having quite a vacation, haven't you? Let's see, it's two years, isn't it?" "Three years!" Emerson replied. "Impossible! Dear, dear, how time flies when one is busy." "Boyd has been telling me of his adventures," said Mildred. "He is going to dine with us." "Indeed." Mr. Wayland displayed no great degree of enthusiasm. "And have you returned, like Pizarro, laden with all the gold of the Incas? Or did Pizarro return? It seems to me that he settled somewhere on the Coast." The old man laughed at his own conceit. "I judge Pizarro was a better miner than I," Boyd smiled. "There were plenty of Esquimau princes whom I might have held for ransom, but if I had done so, all the rest of the tribe would have come to board with them." "Have you come home to stay?" "No, sir; I shall return in a few weeks." Mr. Wayland's cordiality seemed to increase in some subtle manner. "Well, I am sorry you didn't make a fortune, my boy. But, rich or poor, your friends are delighted to see you, and we shall certainly keep you for dinner. I am interested in that Northwestern country myself, and I want to ask some questions about it." CHAPTER X IN WHICH BIG GEORGE MEETS HIS ENEMY