“Are you talking about Nixie? Oh yes, his mother is _grande dame_, and I’ve heard him speak of that uncle, Mr. Derwent, often. He’s the capitalist of the family, I believe.” “The girl,” went on Mrs. Bruce, “seems to be a companion. I noticed Mrs. Nixon didn’t say much to her.” “Is that the sign of companionship?” asked Irving. “Something for you to fix, Madama.” “She’s a very ladylike looking girl,” replied Mrs. Bruce. “Nixie’ll talk to her all right if she has ears,” remarked Irving. “It’s very nice of him to be nice to Betsy. Who else is in the stage?” “I didn’t notice.” “Driver,” Mrs. Bruce turned to her bureau of information, “did you notice who is on the back seat of our stage?” The driver’s imperturbable lips parted. “They put two heavers in there, I believe,” he replied. “_Who?_” Mrs. Bruce spoke in italics. “Waitresses from the hotel. They move them sometimes with the crowd.” Mrs. Bruce kept silence a moment to recover the shock. The presence of the Nixon party still proved the respectability of the last stage, however. “Heavers! Is that your slang out here?” she asked at last, and laughed. “I hope that isn’t descriptive of the way we’re going to be waited on, Irving.” Rosalie’s heart fluttered again on leaving the stage at Norris Basin; but the celerity with which the experienced Miss Hickey hurried her into the hotel to take up their duties aided her wish to be unnoticed. The verandas were alive with passengers already arrived, all ravenous from hours of coaching in the mountain air. At last Rosalie, in her white gown and apron, stood in her appointed place, and the crowds began to be let into the dining-room. Miss Hickey was at some distance from Rosalie, and the latter felt a little hysterical rise in her throat in the knowledge that the snapping black eyes were watching for Irving Bruce. The Nixon party came before the Bruces, and Mr. Derwent spied Rosalie and hastened his dignified footsteps toward her table. “The waitress we had this morning,” he said to Mrs. Nixon. “She has a head on her.” “Sounds alluringly like champagne,” murmured Robert to Miss Maynard, who ignored him. Rosalie involuntarily gave a shy smile as Mr. Derwent nodded at her. She could have embraced them all in her gladness to be delivered from waiting on the Bruces, who now entered, and, tragical to relate, fell short of Miss Hickey’s table. That damsel, however, being at once overwhelmed with orders from a famished group, had no time to mourn. Mr. Derwent looked with pleasant eyes at Rosalie when he ordered his soup. “You enjoyed the drive over,” he said. “There are roses in your cheeks.” “Yes, sir. Consommé?” returned Rosalie faintly, the blush roses referred to deepening to Jacqueminot. Robert glanced up and saw that this was the fair girl who had kept so still behind her veil on the back seat all the morning.