"No," he retorted, almost harshly, "you are not. You _think_ it is the culture, as you call it, that you want; but if that were really it, you would not go. You would find it here. The greatest minds that the world has ever known you may have right here in your home, on your library table. And you may listen to their thoughts without being disturbed by the magpie chatterings of vain and shallow pretenders. You are attracted by the pretentious forms and manners of that life; you think that because a certain class of people, who have nothing else to do, talk a certain jargon, and profess to follow certain teachers--who, nine times out of ten, are charlatans or fools--that they are the intellectual and spiritual leaders of the race. You are mistaking the very things that prevent intellectual and spiritual development for the things you think you want." She did not answer his thought, but replied to his words. "And supposing I am mistaken, as you say. Still, I do not see why it should matter so to you." He made a gesture of hopelessness and sat for a moment in silence. Then he said slowly, "I fear you will not understand, but did you ever hear the story of how 'Wild Horse Phil' earned his title?" She laughed. "Why, of course. Everybody knows about that. Dear, foolish old Phil--I shall miss him dreadfully." "Yes," he said significantly, "you will miss him. The life you are going to does not produce Phil Actons." "It produced an Honorable Patches," she retorted slyly. "Indeed it did _not_," he answered quickly. "It produced--" He checked himself, as though fearing that he would say too much. "But what have Phil and his wild horse to do with the question?" she asked. "Nothing, I fear. Only I feel about your going away as Phil felt when he gave the wild horse its freedom." "I don't think I understand," she said, genuinely puzzled. "I said you would not," he retorted bluntly, "and that's why you are leaving all this." His gesture indicated the vast sweep of country with old Granite Mountain in the distance. Then, with a nod and a look he indicated Professor Parkhill, who was walking toward them along the side of the ridge skirting the scattered cedar timber. "Here comes a product of the sort of culture to which you aspire. Behold the ideal manhood of your higher life! When the intellectual and spiritual life you so desire succeeds in producing racial fruit of that superior quality, it will have justified its existence--and will perish from the earth." Even as Patches spoke, he saw something just beyond the approaching man that made him start as if to rise to his feet. It was the unmistakable face of Yavapai Joe, who, from behind an oak bush, was watching the professor. Patches, glancing at Kitty, saw that she had not noticed. Before the young woman could reply to her companion's derisive remarks, the object which had prompted his comments arrived within speaking distance.