As she glanced at his profile from time to time she became aware of an odd familiarity. He resembled some one she had seen before, but the identity eluded her. Their conversation gradually took a more personal form. Dunne told a story, and told it well. He spoke casually of the West, but instituted no comparisons.
"You are really an exception," Clyde told him. "The average Westerner is such a superior mortal. He looks down on the East, and when he comes among Easterners he condescends."
"It's a relief to have some one admit that Chicago is in the East," he laughed. "No, I don't brag about the West. It's a good country, and it will be better when we have approximated more to Eastern conditions. We are undeveloped as yet. In twenty years——"
"Ah, there it is!" she interrupted. "Scratch a Russian, and find a Tartar. And I took you for an exception!"
He laughed. "I plead guilty. The microbe is in the air. We all have it. Can you blame us? Do you know the West?"
"Only what I have seen from the train. I have told you of every one here. In return tell me about yourself. Mrs. Wade says that you are a rancher."
"Yes, I have a good little ranch in the dry belt, within sight of the mountains."
"The dry belt?" she queried.
"Yes. We call that part of the country which has little or no rain the 'dry belt.' Formerly, for that reason, it was supposed to be useless. But since irrigation has been discovered—you see, it's really a recent discovery with us in America, whatever it is with other peoples—we dry-belt ranchers are in a better position than any others. For we are able to give the land moisture whenever it needs it. Whereas others have to depend on the uncertainties of rainfall. About once in five years their crops are ruined by drought. But we are able to water our fields as the city man waters his lawn."
"So that you are certain of a good crop every year."