"Good for you," exclaimed Steve. "Nothing like beating them at their own game. Won't you have some more coffee?"
"No, thank you," said Janet. "Two cups is really more than I ought to drink at night."
Having risen in expectation of getting the coffee, he gave the fire another armful of mesquite.
"You take a good deal of notice of flowers, don't you!" he said, sitting down again.
"A person could hardly help it in Texas. Lilies and trumpet-flowers and lobelias and asters and dahlias and wax-plants—they all grow wild here. And in spring it is just wonderful. There is scarcely room for grass."
"Texas won't be like that long, if it keeps on."
"No?"
"These plants all grow from seed. And when the land is heavily grazed they don't have a chance to plant themselves. They become—what do you call it—extinguished?"
"Extinct," prompted Janet.
"On my ranch, about twelve miles from here, it is n't what it used to be in springtime. We've got it pretty heavily stocked; we 're working it over into shorthorn. This place that we're on now has a fence all around it; the country is becoming crowded. And they are breaking farms all the time, too. It won't last long."