"Well, I'd say the wrong woman had crossed your trail."
"Not the wrong one."
"Good Lord! you don't mean that by any chance it is at last the right one?"
"At last—the right woman."
"And you sit there looking as solemn over it as a wooden Mexican god! Wake up, old fellow, and tell about her."
"There is nothing to tell. She is the right woman, and I shall never see her again."
"Keith!"
"And I've come back here to tell myself so," continued Keith, doggedly; "to say it over and over, and beat it into my brain, if I have any left. The desert didn't help me—I thought this might."
"This?"
"These hills, and—speaking of it."