But under these superficialities he could
only guess, after all, what the essential woman of her was now. He could
not say if she were still the queer, self-disciplined mixture of cold
logic and primitive passion the Sophie Carr of Lone Moose had revealed
to him. He was not sure if he desired to explore in that direction. The
old scars remained. He shrank from acquiring new ones, yet perforce let
his thought dwell upon her with reviving concentration. After all, he
said to himself, it was on the knees of the gods.
At any rate he was not to be deterred from his project. He had served
his apprenticeship in the game. He was eager to try his own wings in a
flight of his own choosing.
Since he had evolved a definite plan of going about that, he entered
decisively upon the first step. Upon reaching San Francisco he bearded
John P. Henderson in his mahogany den and outlined a scheme which made
that worthy gentleman's eyes widen. He heard Thompson to an end,
however, with a growing twinkle in those same, shrewd, worldly-wise
orbs, and at the finish thumped a plump fist on his desk with a force
that made the pen-rack jingle.
"Damned if I don't go you," he exclaimed. "I said in the beginning you'd
make a salesman, and you've made good.
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