Ralph and Bettina were dancing together at the time the young man was reaching these conclusions—dancing outdoors on the smooth plateau of the mesa on a wonderful, white night. Bettina’s hair was shining in the moonlight, and she was stirred out of her usual coldness by the beauty and novelty of her surroundings. So it was small wonder that Ralph, who was a romantic person, was at present taking a more kindly view of his companion.
However, Bettina had not changed to the same degree in her opinion of Ralph. She was still convinced that he was exactly the kind of man she would always least admire. Bettina’s ideal was represented by her father, who had made his own way by a strenuous and self-denying youth. Moreover, Bettina had never forgiven Ralph for his discovery of the poem she had written and believed she had safely burned that afternoon at the Webster farm.
But the music ceased. After Bettina and Ralph stopped dancing they walked together to the side of the mesa and Bettina sat down.
The music consisted of a Victor, which Mrs. Burton had brought with them as a part of the camping outfit, and tonight Marie had the music in charge.
She looked like a little French figure of Pierette in her tight-fitting black dress, and with her face oddly white in the moonlight. For Marie insisted upon following the French fashion of using a great deal of white powder in spite of her mistress’ remonstrances.
The Victor had been placed in a convenient position and Marie mounted on a stool beside it. Almost for the first time since their arrival in camp, Marie appeared almost gay as she ground out the records and watched the dancers.
Mr. Jefferson Simpson had come forth from his lone tent near the creek and established himself several yards away, to smoke a meditative cigar and observe the proceedings with his twinkling, philosophic eyes.
“It is great out here, isn’t it?” Ralph said, as he arranged himself in a picturesque attitude, lying at full length on the sands near Bettina’s feet.
“And it wasn’t so worse—that little poem of yours I found this spring; at least, not for stuff of that kind.” And Ralph spoke with a fine scorn of the poets and poetry of all ages.
“I can repeat the thing, I think. Indeed, to tell you the truth, after I read it over I learned the words and have been singing them to some music I know.”