No one who has watched a solitary child at play can doubt
that it sees and hears playmates invisible to others. Alaire
Austin, in the remotest depths of her being, was still a child. Of
late her prince had assumed new characteristics and a new form. He
was no longer any one of the many shapes he had been; he was more
like the spirit of the out-of-doors--a strong-limbed, deep-
chested, sun-bronzed creature, with a strain of gipsy blood that
called to hers. He was moody, yet tender, roughly masculine, and
yet possessed of the gentleness and poetry of a girl. He was
violent tempered; he was brave; he rode a magnificent bay mare
that worshiped him, as did all animals.
During one of these introspective periods Alaire telephoned Dave
Law, arguing to herself that she must learn more about her
husband's connection with the Lewis gang. Dave arrived even sooner
than she had expected. She made him dine with her, and they spent
the evening on the dim-lit gallery. In the course of their
conversation Alaire discovered that Dave, too, had a hidden side
of his nature; that he possessed an imagination, and with it a
quaint, whimsical, exploratory turn of mind which enabled him to
talk interestingly of many things and many places.
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