"Carley," he said, at last turning to her with a warm smile, "out here

in the West the cook usually yells, 'Come and get it.' Draw up your

stool."

And presently Carley found herself seated across the crude table from

Glenn, with the background of chinked logs in her sight, and the smart

of wood smoke in her eyes. In years past she had sat with him in the

soft, subdued, gold-green shadows of the Astor, or in the sumptuous

atmosphere of the St. Regis. But this event was so different, so

striking, that she felt it would have limitless significance. For one

thing, the look of Glenn! When had he ever seemed like this, wonderfully

happy to have her there, consciously proud of this dinner he had

prepared in half an hour, strangely studying her as one on trial? This

might have had its effect upon Carley's reaction to the situation,

making it sweet, trenchant with meaning, but she was hungry enough and

the dinner was good enough to make this hour memorable on that score

alone. She ate until she was actually ashamed of herself. She laughed

heartily, she talked, she made love to Glenn. Then suddenly an idea

flashed into her quick mind.

"Glenn, did this girl Flo teach you to cook?" she queried, sharply.

"No. I always was handy in camp. Then out here I had the luck to fall

in with an old fellow who was a wonderful cook. He lived with me for a

while. ... Why, what difference would it have made--had Flo taught me?"

Carley felt the heat of blood in her face. "I don't know that it would

have made a difference. Only--I'm glad she didn't teach you. I'd rather

no girl could teach you what I couldn't."

"You think I'm a pretty good cook, then?" he asked.

"I've enjoyed this dinner more than any I've ever eaten."

"Thanks, Carley. That'll help a lot," he said, gayly, but his eyes shone

with earnest, glad light. "I hoped I'd surprise you. I've found out here

that I want to do things well. The West stirs something in a man. It

must be an unwritten law. You stand or fall by your own hands. Back East

you know meals are just occasions--to hurry through--to dress for--to

meet somebody--to eat because you have to eat. But out here they are

different. I don't know how. In the city, producers, merchants, waiters

serve you for money. The meal is a transaction. It has no significance.

It is money that keeps you from starvation. But in the West money

doesn't mean much. You must work to live."




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