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