Now the other ten were sitting in the bus, and on Mr. Butts’ face was a look that meant, “Must we wait all day while that hussy flirts?” She took her own seat, thinking that she would get Mr. Butts yet. They were growing a little impatient about lunch, she thought. The long drive up to Puye, around a hairpin turn that made the Chicago lady squeal for three minutes, distracted them a little from the idea of food. But not much. On top of the plateau while they were exclaiming over the view she thought of something that might get the wedge into Mr. Butts. “In November,” she said as they entered the forest, “there are wild turkeys here. Lots of the boys in town shoot a couple during the season.” He grunted, but turned to look again at the neat wooded lawns. “He’s slipping,” she thought hopefully. The cliffs of Puye were nearer: pale yellow in the pale brightness of the air. Higher and higher they went, round big curves that pulled them closer to the caves with every sweep. She showed them the caves—— “See those dark spots? Those are the cliff-dwellings we came out to see. Yes, we’ll see them much closer than this, Mrs. Jennings. We’re going to climb right up; right up there.” Mrs. Jennings squealed a little. She had them already, Gin reflected; she had all of them but Mr. Butts. How long would he take? They swarmed over the rest-house when the bus came to a halt. “Lunch!” she cried gaily. Mr. Butts seemed unimpressed. The hostess called her into the kitchen and whispered, “I’m at my wits’ ends. Will you please put it into your report again tonight? I simply cannot manage without another maid. I’m sorry, Gin, but I don’t think you’ll have much time for your own lunch today. Would you mind eating it afterwards?” Gin carried plates and glasses back and forth from the kitchen to the living-room. Mrs. Jennings offered to help in a very sportsmanslike Western manner, but she was refused. Gin was horrified at the idea of a dude stepping into the kitchen. The hostess worked furiously unpacking the lunch that had come on the back of the bus; jellied soup and salad and apricot pie. “Gosh, I get sick of this soup,” said Gin disconsolately in the kitchen, talking to the cook. “It’s worse when I have three trips to the same place in succession. Some day I’ll start bringing my own lunch.” She walked over to the window and watched the dudes disporting on the porch, fully fed and happy, teasing the rest-house puppy. Mr. Butts looked dour, however. He hadn’t been able to eat the apricot pie or the sandwiches because he was on a diet. “That fat one,” she told the cook, “is pretty bad.” The cook looked over her shoulder and agreed heartily. “They all travel, that kind. Nobody will keep them at home. Have some more coffee?” “No thanks. We’ll have to be starting. Well....” With a gesture of tightening her belt, she walked out to the porch. “Well, people, are we ready to go?” “Where to?” asked Mr. Butts.