And Graham wondered if this surrounding of herself by many people was not deliberate on Paula’s part. As for himself, he definitely abandoned work on his book, and joined in the before-breakfast swims of the hardier5 younger folk, in the morning rides over the ranch6, and in whatever fun was afoot indoors and out.
Late hours and early were kept; and one night, Dick, who adhered to his routine and never appeared to his guests before midday, made a night of it at poker7 in the stag-room. Graham had sat in, and felt well repaid when, at dawn, the players received an unexpected visit from Paula—herself past one of her white nights, she said, although no sign of it showed on her fresh skin and color. Graham had to struggle to keep his eyes from straying too frequently to her as she mixed golden fizzes to rejuvenate8 the wan-eyed, jaded9 players. Then she made them start the round of “jacks” that closed the game, and sent them off for a cold swim before breakfast and the day’s work or frolic.
Never was Paula alone. Graham could only join in the groups that were always about her. Although the young people ragged10 and tangoed incessantly11, she rarely danced, and then it was with the young men. Once, however, she favored him with an old-fashioned waltz. “Your ancestors in an antediluvian12 dance,” she mocked the young people, as she stepped out; for she and Graham had the floor to themselves.
Once down the length of the room, the two were in full accord. Paula, with the sympathy Graham recognized that made her the exceptional accompanist or rider, subdued13 herself to the masterful art of the man, until the two were as parts of a sentient14 machine that operated without jar or friction15. After several minutes, finding their perfect mutual16 step and pace, and Graham feeling the absolute giving of Paula to the dance, they essayed rhythmical17 pauses and dips, their feet never leaving the floor, yet affecting the onlookers18 in the way Dick voiced it when he cried out: “They float! They float!” The music was the “Waltz of Salomé,” and with its slow-fading end they postured19 slower and slower to a perfect close.
There was no need to speak. In silence, without a glance at each other, they returned to the company where Dick was proclaiming:
“Well, younglings, codlings, and other fry, that’s the way we old folks used to dance. I’m not saying anything against the new dances, mind you. They’re all right and dandy fine. But just the same it wouldn’t injure you much to learn to waltz properly. The way you waltz, when you do attempt it, is a scream. We old folks do know a thing or two that is worth while.”
“For instance?” queried20 one of the girls.
“I’ll tell you. I don’t mind the young generation smelling of gasoline the way it does—”
Cries and protests drowned Dick out for a moment.
“I know I smell of it myself,” he went on. “But you’ve all failed to learn the good old modes of locomotion21. There isn’t a girl of you that Paula can’t walk into the ground. There isn’t a fellow of you that Graham and I can’t walk into a receiving hospital.—Oh, I know you can all crank engines and shift gears to the queen’s taste. But there isn’t one of you that can properly ride a horse—a real horse, in the only way, I mean. As for driving a smart pair of roadsters, it’s a screech22. And how many of you husky lads, hell-scooting on the bay in your speed-boats, can take the wheel of an old-time sloop23 or schooner24, without an auxiliary25, and get out of your own way in her?”
“But we get there just the same,” the same girl retorted.
“And I don’t deny it,” Dick answered. “But you are not always pretty. I’ll tell you a pretty sight that no one of you can ever present— Paula, there, with the reins26 of four slashing27 horses in her hands, her foot on the brake, swinging tally-ho along a mountain road.”
On a warm morning, in the cool arcade28 of the great patio29, a chance group of four or five, among whom was Paula, formed about Graham, who had been reading alone. After a time he returned to his magazine with such absorption that he forgot those about him until an awareness30 of silence penetrated31 to his consciousness. He looked up. All the others save Paula had strayed off. He could hear their distant laughter from across the patio. But Paula! He surprised the look on her face, in her eyes. It was a look bent32 on him, concerning him. Doubt, speculation33, almost fear, were in her eyes; and yet, in that swift instant, he had time to note that it was a look deep and searching—almost, his quick fancy prompted, the look of one peering into the just-opened book of fate. Her eyes fluttered and fell, and the color increased in her cheeks in an unmistakable blush. Twice her lips moved to the verge34 of speech; yet, caught so arrantly35 in the act, she was unable to phrase any passing thought. Graham saved the painful situation by saying casually36:
“Do you know, I’ve just been reading De Vries’ eulogy37 of Luther Burbank’s work, and it seems to me that Dick is to the domestic animal world what Burbank is to the domestic vegetable world. You are life-makers here—thumbing the stuff into new forms of utility and beauty.”
Paula, by this time herself again, laughed and accepted the compliment.
“I fear me,” Graham continued with easy seriousness, “as I watch your achievements, that I can only look back on a misspent life. Why didn’t I get in and make things? I’m horribly envious38 of both of you.”
“We are responsible for a dreadful lot of creatures being born,” she said. “It makes one breathless to think of the responsibility.”
“The ranch certainly spells fecundity,” Graham smiled. “I never before was so impressed with the flowering and fruiting of life. Everything here prospers39 and multiplies—”
“Oh!” Paula cried, breaking in with a sudden thought. “Some day I’ll show you my goldfish. I breed them, too—yea, and commercially. I supply the San Francisco dealers40 with their rarest strains, and I even ship to New York. And, best of all, I actually make money—profits, I mean. Dick’s books show it, and he is the most rigid41 of bookkeepers. There isn’t a tack-hammer on the place that isn’t inventoried42; nor a horse-shoe nail unaccounted for. That’s why he has such a staff of bookkeepers. Why, do you know, calculating every last least item of expense, including average loss of time for colic and lameness43, out of fearfully endless columns of figures he has worked the cost of an hour’s labor44 for a draught45 horse to the third decimal place.”
“But your goldfish,” Graham suggested, irritated by her constant dwelling46 on her husband.
“Well, Dick makes his bookkeepers keep track of my goldfish in the same way. I’m charged every hour of any of the ranch or house labor I use on the fish—postage stamps and stationery47, too, if you please. I have to pay interest on the plant. He even charges me for the water, just as if he were a city water company and I a householder. And still I net ten per cent., and have netted as high as thirty. But Dick laughs and says when I’ve deducted48 the wages of superintendence—my superintendence, he means—that I’ll find I am poorly paid or else am operating at a loss; that with my net I couldn’t hire so capable a superintendent49.
“Just the same, that’s why Dick succeeds in his undertakings50. Unless it’s sheer experiment, he never does anything without knowing precisely51, to the last
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