CHAPTER XII
Out in California
'A woman will, or won't, depend on't;
If she will do't, she will, and there's an end on't.'
On the wooden verandah of Walter Dane's ranch in Southern California sat Gwen one evening, enjoying the orange-flamed sunset in front of her. And lounging opposite her, smoking his pipe, was Walter—a good-looking young fellow, whose usual expression was supreme good-humour, but whose brow now was furrowed with anxious thought.
'You see, Gwen,' he said, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and ramming in a fresh supply of tobacco in a slow, meditative fashion, 'it has been very good of you to come out and look me up. I've been longing for a sight of my own flesh and blood for years, and if I was only a sight better off, I'd offer you a home for good.'
'That I would not take, with many thanks,' said Gwen, laughing. 'Now come, ever since I arrived I have seen you have had something on your mind, so unburden! What is it?'
Walter looked across the great sweep of uncultivated ground outside his ranch to the landmark of another ranch in the distance—a windmill which pumped up the water necessary for use from a great depth below.
'You saw the Setons yesterday. What did you think of them?'
As he asked the question he pulled at his heavy moustache rather nervously.