"Why, of course. Everybody knows about that. Dear, foolish
old Phil--I shall miss him dreadfully." "Yes," he said significantly,
"you will miss him. The life you are going to does not produce Phil
Actons."
"It produced an Honorable Patches," she retorted slyly.
"Indeed it did _not_," he answered quickly. "It produced--" He checked
himself, as though fearing that he would say too much.
"But what have Phil and his wild horse to do with the question?" she
asked.
"Nothing, I fear. Only I feel about your going away as Phil felt when he
gave the wild horse its freedom."
"I don't think I understand," she said, genuinely puzzled.
"I said you would not," he retorted bluntly, "and that's why you are
leaving all this." His gesture indicated the vast sweep of country with
old Granite Mountain in the distance.
Then, with a nod and a look he indicated Professor Parkhill, who was
walking toward them along the side of the ridge skirting the scattered
cedar timber. "Here comes a product of the sort of culture to which you
aspire. Behold the ideal manhood of your higher life! When the
intellectual and spiritual life you so desire succeeds in producing
racial fruit of that superior quality, it will have justified its
existence--and will perish from the earth.
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