She smothered a sigh. The "prospect" and the "ledge" had been part of their life, lifting them to high hopes, dropping them to continual disappointment. She would have counseled him to give it all up, but that he now and then had had luck, especially in the last five years. She went back to herself. "'The Zingara' has been a great thing for me. Everybody says so. If the next piece goes as big I'm going to strike for a raise. Wait till I show you," she jumped up, rubbing her oily fingers on the towel, "and you'll see why little Panchita's had to get an extra-sized hat." She took from a side table a book--the actress's scrap album--and came back flirting its pages. At one she pressed it open and held it toward him, triumphantly pointing to a clipping. "There, from the _Sacramento Courier_." He gave a glance at the clipping and said: "Oh, yes, _that_. Grand, ain't it?" She was surprised. "You've seen it. Why didn't you send it to me?" "Who said I'd seen it?" He took the book from her, staring across it, suddenly combative. "Don't you run along so fast. Ain't you known if I had I'd have mailed it to you?" "But how did you know about it?" she said, her surprise growing, for she saw he was moved. "You're gettin' too darned quick." He pushed the book in among the dishes roughly, his irritation obvious. "Ain't it possible I might have heard it? Might have met a feller that come up from Marysville who'd seen It and told me?" "Yes, of course it is. You needn't get mad about it." "Mad--who said I was mad?" He bent over the book, muttering like a storm in retreat. "I guess I ain't missed so many that when one does get by me you should throw it in my teeth." She smoothed the top of his head with a placating hand and went back to her seat. Nibbling a ripe olive she watched him as he read. Her eyes were anxiously questioning. This too--anger at so small a thing--was unlike him. When he had finished his annoyance was over; pride beamed from his face as if a light was lit behind it. "I guess there ain't many of 'em get a write-up like that." He put the book aside and began a second attack on the supper. "Crowder's some friend. His little finger's worth more'n the whole kit and crew you've had danglin' round you since you started." "You're right." She stretched her hand for a fig, spilling, bruised and bursting, from the torn bag. "There's a new one dangling." With her father Pancha was always truthful. To the rest of the world she lied whenever she thought it necessary, never carelessly or prodigally, for to be fearless was part of her proud self-sufficiency. But as she had learned to fight, to battle her way up, to climb over her enemy, to wrest her chance from opposing forces, she had learned to lie when the occasion demanded. She was only entirely frank and entirely truthful with the one person whom she loved. He put down his glass and looked at her, in sudden, fixed attention. "What's that?"