He had done well enough during his four years
in the university, not because he was ambitious, but simply because
he was not a fool and found a mild satisfaction in passing his
examinations. Nature had cast him in a generous physical mold, and he
had aided nature on diamond and gridiron. He had taken his place in
society, had driven his car and ridden his horses. He had through it
all spent the money which came in a steady stream from the ample
coffers of William Conniston, Senior. His had been a busy life, a life
filled with dinners and dances and theaters and races. He had not had
time to think. And certainly he had not had need to think.
But now, under the calm gaze of the desert, he found himself turning
his thoughts inward. He had been driven out of his father's house. He
had been called a dawdler and a trifler and a do-nothing. He had been
told by a stern old man who was a _man_ that he was a disgrace to his
name. He had never done anything but dance and smoke and drink and
make pretty speeches which were polite lies and which were accepted as
such. And now a minor note, as thin as a low-toned human voice heard
faintly through the deep music of a cathedral organ, something seemed
to call to him telling him again of these things.
The darkening line where the far-away hills in the south were dragged
deeper and deeper into the night drew his wandering thoughts away from
himself and sent them skimming after the girl he had seen that day.
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