"I was thinking about down there"--he pointed into the haze of
the distant valley to the west.
"Don't," she returned, "let's think about up here"--she waved her hand
toward the high crest of the San Bernardinos, and the mountain peaks about
them.
"Will you let me paint your portrait--when we get back to the orange
groves?" he asked.
"I'm sure I don't know," she returned. "Why do you want to paint me? I'm
nobody, you know--but just me."
"That's the reason I want to paint you," he answered.
"What's the reason?"
"Because you are you."
"But a portrait of me would not help you on your road to fame," she
retorted.
He flinched. "Perhaps," he said, "that's partly why I want to do it."
"Because it won't help you?"
"Because it won't help me on the road to fame. You _will_ pose for me,
won't you?"
"I'm sure I cannot say"--she answered--"perhaps--please don't let's talk
about it."
"Why not?" he asked curiously.
"Because"--she answered seriously--"we have been such good friends up here
in the mountains; such--such comrades. Up here in the hills, with the
canyon gates shut against the world that I don't know, you are like--like
Brian Oakley--and like my father used to be--and down there"--she
hesitated.
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