He was conscious that certain captains of business would not have come so
frequently to his home if Lucia had not been there to dispense a supposedly
gracious hospitality. Let her go? Lose all this? Not at all! He brutally
told her so again and again. And finally she made up her mind, for the sake
of peace, that she would merely remain the flower under glass, if that was
his desire. Arguments were of no avail. In a sense, she was beaten.

The opera, books, travel, a few good friends--those that Morgan allowed
her to keep--these filled her days.

One evening she was particularly surprised when he said to her, casually:

"How would you like a little trip out West? You look peaked. Maybe it would
set you up."

"Why--it sounds nice, Morgan," she answered. "Is it business, or--" Her
sense of humor made it impossible for her to bring out the word "pleasure."

"Of course it's business," he replied. "Precious little else I get." They
were dining alone, at home, and he motioned the butler to refill his glass
with champagne.

She wondered at his suggestion. There must be something behind it. But as a
matter of fact she was tired of Long Island, and if she could kill a few
weeks--maybe a few months--in the West, she would willingly go.

"Sturgis telegraphed me that there was a big possibility of a new vein of
oil down on the border," Pell was telling her. "Some important men want to
talk things over with me at Bisbee. I want to get started in a day or two.