"Oh, we do. Of course not every one cares for a foothill ranch, but we are never lonely." She had a flowerlike face and her simple refinement was charming. "I hope you will like the horses," she went on. "Now that we have decided to let two of them go, the quicker the better." She laughed musically, then explained. "My husband has often refused to part with his famous four, since they won the chariot race, two years ago. You have heard about New Year's Day in Pasadena? All strangers look forward to the flower parade, followed by genuine Roman chariot races. And the running of thoroughbreds, four abreast, is fine!" Her blue eyes kindled.
"I should think your husband would try again," said Ned.
"Oh, he will, but with a different four. He does not wish to repeat his victory with the same horses, for last year there was trouble."
"Possibly he might part with the noted quartette? If two of them answered for the saddle—are not too wild," Mrs. Doan added.
"Oh, no," the young wife answered. "Hawley would never consider selling Delia or her running mate. We could not let those two go." She flushed with her ingenuous confidence. "Delia is named for me. A little romance in which she took leading part must always insure her pasture on our ranch."
"Come with us in the machine," said Mrs. Hartley. "Do be good enough to show us 'Delia,'" said Mrs. Doan. "We are now doubly interested in your husband's horses."
Isabel smiled in her rare way. The woman of the foothills had once been a school teacher and felt the irresistible charm of the beautiful stranger's manner. To peer at life below the mesa was an opportunity, and the rancher's young wife threw aside a fresh gingham apron and entered the car. She sat in the center, half turned in a revolving chair, where her eyes covertly caught the elegant but simple effect of Mrs. Doan's morning toilet. She had never seen any one so neatly put up against ravages of wind and dust. Isabel's earlier freshness remained; and the large purple hat securely veiled for touring seemed duly created to protect her golden hair. The older ladies were kind and the little woman of the foothills enjoyed the short spin through the avenue of peppers to paddocks beyond.
"You never lock your door?" Mrs. Hartley questioned.
"No, indeed. No one would think of stealing up here! Every one is honest where every one sleeps, eats, and lives out of doors."
"Of course," said Isabel. "How wonderful this upland country is; I envy you a home beneath the mountains. How close they are!" She swept the range in contemplative joy; then her eyes dropped to paddocks, outlined by whitewashed fences, but naturally adorned within with huge live oaks. The spreading trees made shelter for all seasons. "Happy horses!" she exclaimed. "I am not surprised they won the chariot races."