"You look so serious. I'm sure it must be pretty bad. Can't you think what it is?"
He laughed. "I was thinking about down there"--he pointed into the haze of the distant valley to the west.
"Don't," she returned, "let's think about up here"--she waved her hand toward the high crest of the San Bernardinos, and the mountain peaks about them.
"Will you let me paint your portrait--when we get back to the orange groves?" he asked.
"I'm sure I don't know," she returned. "Why do you want to paint me? I'm nobody, you know--but just me."
"That's the reason I want to paint you," he answered.
"What's the reason?"
"Because you are you."
"But a portrait of me would not help you on your road to fame," she retorted.
He flinched. "Perhaps," he said, "that's partly why I want to do it."