And the nights came, one after another, and were filed away by weeks and months—­nights soft and languorous and fragrant, that should have driven Strephon to Chloe over wires however barbed, that might have drawn Cupid himself to hunt, lasso in hand, among those amorous pastures—­but Teddy kept his fences up.

One July night Madame Bo-Peep and her ranch manager were sitting on the east gallery.  Teddy had been exhausting the science of prognostication as to the probabilities of a price of twenty-four cents for the autumn clip, and had then subsided into an anesthetic cloud of Havana smoke.  Only as incompetent a judge as a woman would have failed to note long ago that at least a third of his salary must have gone up in the fumes of those imported Regalias.

“Teddy,” said Octavia, suddenly, and rather sharply, “what are you working down here on a ranch for?”

“One hundred per,” said Teddy, glibly, “and found.”

“I’ve a good mind to discharge you.”

“Can’t do it,” said Teddy, with a grin.

“Why not?” demanded Octavia, with argumentative heat.

“Under contract.  Terms of sale respect all unexpired contracts.  Mine runs until 12 P. M., December thirty-first.  You might get up at midnight on that date and fire me.  If you try it sooner I’ll be in a position to bring legal proceedings.”

Octavia seemed to be considering the prospects of litigation.

“But,” continued Teddy cheerfully, “I’ve been thinking of resigning anyway.”

Octavia’s rocking-chair ceased its motion.  There were centipedes in this country, she felt sure; and Indians, and vast, lonely, desolate, empty wastes; all within strong barbed-wire fence.  There was a Van Dresser pride, but there was also a Van Dresser heart.  She must know for certain whether or not he had forgotten.

“Ah, well, Teddy,” she said, with a fine assumption of polite interest, “it’s lonely down here; you’re longing to get back to the old life—­to polo and lobsters and theatres and balls.”

“Never cared much for balls,” said Teddy virtuously.

“You’re getting old, Teddy.  Your memory is failing.  Nobody ever knew you to miss a dance, unless it occurred on the same night with another one which you attended.  And you showed such shocking bad taste, too, in dancing too often with the same partner.  Let me see, what was that Forbes girl’s name—­the one with wall eyes—­Mabel, wasn’t it?”

“No; Adele.  Mabel was the one with the bony elbows.  That wasn’t wall in Adele’s eyes.  It was soul.  We used to talk sonnets together, and Verlaine.  Just then I was trying to run a pipe from the Pierian spring.”

“You were on the floor with her,” said Octavia, undeflected, “five times at the Hammersmiths’.”

“Hammersmiths’ what?” questioned Teddy, vacuously.

“Ball—­ball,” said Octavia, viciously.  “What were we talking of?”

“Eyes, I thought,” said Teddy, after some reflection; “and elbows.”