They had come to the edge of the mesa, and there below shone the small, scattered lights of the town. The graphophone was playing in the saloon. Its music—some raucous, comic song—insulted the night.
"Why, no," said Dickie, "I don't hate Millings. I never thought about it that way. It's not such a bad place. Honest, it isn't. There's lots of fine folks in it. Have you met Jim Greely?"
"Why, no, but I've seen him. Isn't that Girlie's—'fellow'?"
Dickie made round, respectful eyes. He was evidently very much impressed.
"Say!" he ejaculated. "Is that the truth? Girlie's aiming kind of high."
It was not easy to walk side by side on the rutted snow of the road. Sheila here slipped ahead of him and went on quickly along the middle rut where the horses' hoofs had beaten a pitted path.
She looked back at him over her shoulder with a sort of malice.
"Is it aiming high?" she said. "Girlie is much more beautiful than
Jim Greely."
"Oh, but he's some looker—Jim."
"Do you think so?" she said indifferently, with a dainty touch of scorn.