He told her of his father, of the things that he himself had
once planned to be and do. He told her of his friends: of Lily, his
pal, so-called because he used a safety razor every morning of his
life; of Whisker, the finest dog in Colorado; of Ruby, the ruddy brown
horse that would follow him miles through the mountains and always find
the master at the end of the trail. And he told her it was a lonely
life. And it was. Prince Ingram had lived here fourteen years, with
no more consciousness of being alone than the eagle perched solitary on
the mountain crags, but quite suddenly he discovered that it was
lonely, and somehow the discovery took the wonder from that free glad
life, and made him long for the city's bright lights, where there were
others,--not just cowboys, but regular men and women.
"Yes," assented Connie rather abruptly, "I suppose it would be nice to
be in a crowd of women, laughing and dancing and singing. I suppose
you do miss it."
"That was not what I meant," said Prince slowly. "I don't care for a
crowd of them. Not many. One is enough." He was appalled at his own
audacity, and despised himself for his cowardice, for why didn't he
look this white fine girl of the city in the eyes and say:
"Yes, one,--and you are it.
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