"No. That's Desire. She is wearing blue."
"She was wearing pink this morning."
"Yes. But she won't be wearing it this afternoon."
"How do you know?" curiously.
The professor yawned. "By psychology! I happened to mention that pink was Mary's favorite color."
Rogers opened his lips. He was plainly struggling with himself.
"Don't trouble," said Spence serenely. "I know what you feel it your duty to say. But it isn't really your duty. And there would be no use in saying it, anyway. I take my chances!"
CHAPTER XVIII
The long Transcontinental puffed steadily up toward the white-capped peaks of a continent. They were a day out from Vancouver—a day during which Desire had sat upon the observation platform, drugged with wonder and beauty. She had known mountains all her life. They were dear and familiar, and the sound of rushing water was in her blood. But these heights and depths, these incredible valleys, these ever-climbing, piling hills pushing brown shoulders through their million pines, the dizzy, twisting track and the constant marvel of the man-made train which braved it, held her spellbound and almost speechless.