"Philosophers?" he questioned back. "They didn't come with the
Wickenberg crowd. Who and what are they? I'm all at sea."

"They--" Paula hesitated. "They live here. They call themselves the
jungle-birds. They have a camp in the woods a couple of miles away,
where they never do anything except read and talk. I'll wager, right
now, you'll find fifty of Dick's latest, uncatalogued books in their
cabins. They have the run of the library, as well, and you'll see them
drifting in and out, any time of the day or night, with their arms
full of books--also, the latest magazines. Dick says they are
responsible for his possessing the most exhaustive and up-to-date
library on philosophy on the Pacific Coast. In a way, they sort of
digest such things for him. It's great fun for Dick, and, besides, it
saves him time. He's a dreadfully hard worker, you know."

"I understand that they... that Dick takes care of them?" Graham
asked, the while he pleasured in looking straight into the blue eyes
that looked so straight into his.

As she answered, he was occupied with noting the faintest hint of
bronze--perhaps a trick of the light--in her long, brown lashes.
Perforce, he lifted his gaze to her eyebrows, brown, delicately
stenciled, and made sure that the hint of bronze was there. Still
lifting his gaze to her high-piled hair, he again saw, but more
pronounced, the bronze note glinting from the brown-golden hair. Nor
did he fail to startle and thrill to a dazzlement of smile and teeth
and eye that frequently lived its life in her face. Hers was no thin
smile of restraint, he judged. When she smiled she smiled all of
herself, generously, joyously, throwing the largess of all her being
into the natural expression of what was herself and which domiciled