absolutely necessary, when one had once got one's eyes open. The strongest dope, he said, was religion. The others were love, work, and whisky. His was whisky—he said it was the most reliable. … Yours, I suppose, is work."
"Well, it isn't religion, love, or whisky," said Crayven drily. "But—yes, perhaps my work is that, to a certain extent. It keeps one from thinking too much. Out there in the desert one would get a bit queer sometimes, I fancy, if there weren't a perpetual round of little daily affairs to keep one going. … Yes, I suppose it is a dope. And yours—what is yours?"
"Mine? I'm not sure that I have one—yet. I never thought I needed one"
"You had one, when I saw you first. It was love."
Teresa flushed hotly.
"It is not a 'dope'—it is the only real thing in the world," she said passionately.
"Is it?" murmured Crayven.
"It is the only thing that lifts one out of the ruck of the world, that makes one feel happy and free and alive!"
"No—whisky 'll do that," said Crayven. "It's but a temporary intoxication, in any case."
His tone was subacid, with all its lightness. It seemed to Teresa that he delighted in making her combative on this subject. He always watched her face when she asserted her belief in
