The stage swept up to the steps. The tourists swarmed into it like bees. Again Mrs. Bruce essayed to enter, and Rosalie could see Irving draw her back, while Betsy Foster stood impassive at a little distance, observing the scene with inexpressive eyes. CHAPTER VI THE LAST STAGE “I SHOULD like to know why they put us in the last stage!” demanded Mrs. Bruce, in an irate tone. “Many advantages,” returned Irving, with a twinkle of his eyes toward Betsy. “There are not, Irving Bruce, and you ought to have done something about it! Haven’t we always heard about the dust of the Yellowstone?” “Yes, that’s why they oil the roads now,” returned Bruce pacifically, “and we don’t have to hurry, by this means, you see. Take our own time. Don’t have to hurry past anything to make room for the next stage.” “I never could endure _leavings_!” exclaimed Mrs. Bruce, her eyes still snapping as the last stage came around the curve toward the steps. Betsy attracted her attention. “See those folks you said looked so aristocratic,” she said quietly. “They’re goin’ with us.” Mrs. Bruce followed the direction of her maid’s meaning glance and observed the deaf gentleman’s party of three. Insensibly Mrs. Bruce’s ireful expression relaxed. There was that in the tone of this party which could lend distinction even to the last stage. Mrs. Bruce gazed at the trio appreciatively. “I marvel,” she murmured to Betsy, “that they haven’t their own equipage.” Betsy sighed with relief and felt that the day was won. Having observed the dignified, florid-faced man with the white mustache, the tall woman in half-mourning, and the quiet young girl who accompanied them, Mrs. Bruce spoke again distinctly:— “If I should not be taking any one’s place on the driver’s seat, I should like to sit there very much.” “We shall take turns as to that, I fancy,” replied Irving. He noticed the small rubber device hanging about the neck of the deaf gentleman and turned to the lady beside him. “Will you sit up in front to start off?” he asked, lifting his hat. “Your husband enjoys more through the eyes than through the ears, I observe.” The lady, with whom smiles were evidently a rarity, met his eyes and essayed one. She thanked him, and turning to her companion pointed to the driver’s place, as they moved down the steps. The gentleman shook his head and motioned the lady into the middle seat of the stage, which she entered. “But where is Robert?” she exclaimed in a sort of dignified panic. “Miss Maynard,” turning to the companion who waited passively, “I thought you said you saw my son a moment ago.” “Yes, Mrs. Nixon, in the office,” replied the girl. “Henry! _Henry!_” pursued the lady, pushing against the deaf gentleman’s shoulder both to attract his attention and to prevent his entering the stage. “Robert!” She mouthed the name distinctly and motioned toward the hotel. “_Robert!_”