“Well, the cars all lined up and everybody came except three of my dudes. They were a family. I guess they just decided not to come, without any notice. It was so late that Mr. God just put the other one into Rita’s car instead, and they sent her, and told me to go home. That means the third year running that I’ve missed out on the Hopi country.” “Oh, you poor thing!” In all Gin’s rush of indignation she was afraid to say more. With her mouth open, waiting to pour forth incitement to rebellion, she looked at Flo’s miserable face and turned instead to her suit-case. The purple velvet blouse went into the rickety wardrobe, but after a quick survey of the rest of the contents she closed the bag and pushed it into the corner, ready for tomorrow. “Gee, I’m sorry,” she added over her shoulder, draping her suit-coat on a hanger. “Oh, well,” said Flo heavily, “I’ll be over all this by tomorrow, I suppose. I’ve been as sore as this before. I’m just mad because I turned down a date for tomorrow night and now I’ll be in town after all, probably.” “It’s a rotten deal. Call up and say your plans have changed. Where are the cigarettes?” “On the table behind you. No, I’m not going to call up now. I’m ashamed to do it; I talked too much about the Hopi trip. I might as well give up trying to keep any contacts in this damned town. They’re always being mixed up. What sort of crowd did you have?” “Ghastly.” Gin sat down on the couch and propped her feet up, taking a long comfortable puff. “It was a married couple with a kid and an old lady who kept saying, ‘Now, young woman, tell me what I’m going to see!’ Whenever I tried to tell her she’d look over my head with a patient expression.” “I can just see her. They come in packages.” Flo picked up another stocking and spread her fingers out in the heel. “Gin, I’m fed up. Really.” “Naturally,” said Gin, as comfortingly as possible. “No, it isn’t just that. I’ve been thinking over the whole situation. I’ve been here since the beginning of the Detour: I’ve had three years of it. Where am I? What have I got out of it?” “What have you got?” Gin smiled and watched the smoke. “Oh, you’ve got a swell Navajo belt.” “Yes, a belt and a half dozen shirts I wouldn’t dream of wearing if they weren’t part of the uniform, and a lot of silver junk that I’m sick of looking at. I’d sell it if I didn’t need it for the effect.” “But of course there’s the experience. Many a girl of your age is hanging around in New York or Chicago trying to catch a husband so she can stop playing the typewriter eight hours a day. This is fun. Honestly it is: think of the city, and the dirt!” “Experience.” Flo pronounced it carefully, with a burlesque tone of rapture. “You like that word. It’s the same thing as adventure, isn’t it?” “Just about.” “Yeah. I used to have ideas about adventure, too.” “Oh, you’re old and weary. Forget it.”