"What is this?" he asked.
"That's my trail-map," replied Lawson. "The red lines represent my wanderings."
Curtis studied it with expert eyes. "You have ploughed the Arizona deserts pretty thoroughly."
"Yes, I've spent three summers down in that country studying cliff-dwellings. It's a mighty alluring region. Last summer I broke away and got back into the north, but I am greatly taken with the hot sunshine and loneliness of the desert."
Curtis turned sharply. "What I can't understand, Lawson, is this: How can you pull up and leave such a home?"—he indicated the room with a sweep of his hand—"and go out on the painted desert or down the Chaco and swelter in the heat like a horned toad?"
Lawson smiled. "It is absurd, isn't it? Man's an unaccountable beast. But come! Breakfast is waiting, and I hope you're hungry."
The dining-room was built on a scale with the library, and the mahogany table, sparsely covered with dishes, looked small and lonely in the midst of the shining floor. This feature of the beautiful room impressed Curtis, and as they took seats opposite each other he remarked, "If I were not here you would be alone?"
"Yes, quite generally I breakfast alone. I entertain less than you would think. I'm a busy man when at home."
"Well, the waste of room is criminal, Lawson, that's all I have to say—criminal. You'll be called upon to answer for it some time."
"I've begun to think so myself," replied the host, significantly.