Ileen was a girl of ideas.  She was destined for higher things (if there can be anything higher) than taking in dollars all day through a barbed-wire wicket.  She had read and listened and thought.  Her looks would have formed a career for a less ambitious girl; but, rising superior to mere beauty, she must establish something in the nature of a salon—­the only one in Paloma.

“Don’t you think that Shakespeare was a great writer?” she would ask, with such a pretty little knit of her arched brows that the late Ignatius Donnelly, himself, had he seen it, could scarcely have saved his Bacon.

Ileen was of the opinion, also, that Boston is more cultured than Chicago; that Rosa Bonheur was one of the greatest of women painters; that Westerners are more spontaneous and open-hearted than Easterners; that London must be a very foggy city, and that California must be quite lovely in the springtime.  And of many other opinions indicating a keeping up with the world’s best thought.

These, however, were but gleaned from hearsay and evidence:  Ileen had theories of her own.  One, in particular, she disseminated to us untiringly.  Flattery she detested.  Frankness and honesty of speech and action, she declared, were the chief mental ornaments of man and woman.  If ever she could like any one, it would be for those qualities.

“I’m awfully weary,” she said, one evening, when we three musketeers of the mesquite were in the little parlor, “of having compliments on my looks paid to me.  I know I’m not beautiful.”

(Bud Cunningham told me afterward that it was all he could do to keep from calling her a liar when she said that.)

“I’m only a little Middle-Western girl,” went on Ileen, “who just wants to be simple and neat, and tries to help her father make a humble living.”

(Old Man Hinkle was shipping a thousand silver dollars a month, clear profit, to a bank in San Antonio.)

Bud twisted around in his chair and bent the rim of his hat, from which he could never be persuaded to separate.  He did not know whether she wanted what she said she wanted or what she knew she deserved.  Many a wiser man has hesitated at deciding.  Bud decided.

“Why—­ah, Miss Ileen, beauty, as you might say, ain’t everything.  Not sayin’ that you haven’t your share of good looks, I always admired more than anything else about you the nice, kind way you treat your ma and pa.  Any one what’s good to their parents and is a kind of home-body don’t specially need to be too pretty.”

Ileen gave him one of her sweetest smiles.  “Thank you, Mr. Cunningham,” she said.  “I consider that one of the finest compliments I’ve had in a long time.  I’d so much rather hear you say that than to hear you talk about my eyes and hair.  I’m glad you believe me when I say I don’t like flattery.”

Our cue was there for us.  Bud had made a good guess.  You couldn’t lose Jacks.  He chimed in next.