something for her.

And suddenly realizing she would marry one of these men if she
did not revolt, she had been assailed by a great weariness, an
icy-sickening sense that life had palled upon her. She was tired
of fashionable society. She was tired of polished, imperturbable
men who sought only to please her. She was tired of being feted,
admired, loved, followed, and importuned; tired of people; tired
of houses, noise, ostentation, luxury. She was so tired of
herself!

In the lonely distances and the passionless stars of boldly
painted stage scenery she had caught a glimpse of something that
stirred her soul. The feeling did not last. She could not call it
back. She imagined that the very boldness of the scene had
appealed to her; she divined that the man who painted it had
found inspiration, joy, strength, serenity in rugged nature. And
at last she knew what she needed--to be alone, to brood for long
hours, to gaze out on lonely, silent, darkening stretches, to
watch the stars, to face her soul, to find her real self.

Then it was she had first thought of visiting the brother who had
gone West to cast his fortune with the cattlemen. As it
happened, she had friends who were on the eve of starting for
California, and she made a quick decision to travel with them.
When she calmly announced her intention of going out West her
mother had exclaimed in consternation; and her father, surprised
into pathetic memory of the black sheep of the family, had stared
at her with glistening eyes. "Why, Madeline! You want to see
that wild boy!" Then he had reverted to the anger he still felt