“Here’s your room, dearie,” she said, piloting her niece into a tiny apricot-colored guest chamber. “I suppose it looks small after the ranch; you couldn’t rope a steer in it, but it’s large enough, if you’re not boisterous. You had to sleep on the davenport when I was at the Livingston, didn’t you? This is no end nicer; it ought to be, heaven knows, with what I pay for it. Jim voluntarily gave me another hundred a month, did I tell you?” She sighed and winked her blue eyes violently. “He’s a prince, if ever there was one. He said it was only fair--H. C. of L., and all that. Now, I’ll just slip into something loose and we’ll have a chatter. Lucinda,” she called the little trim negress, “you make Miss McVeagh a cup of chocolate. You’ll see,” she turned to her niece again, “I’ll watch you drink it without a quiver. I ought to be a martyr or something--you know--hunger strikes--” She went away breathlessly to get out of her armor, and Ginger opened the window and let the keen, foggy night air into the little soft room. She always felt trapped in her Aunt Fan’s pretty abiding places. Nevertheless, she stayed a whole week this time, and got snugly into her aunt’s good graces by buying everything she suggested. “We’ll get downtown _early_.” Mrs. Featherstone planned earnestly, the night of her arrival, “oh, bright and early, before any one’s out--by eleven o’clock if we can possibly manage it--and get you some things you can wear right out of the shop, before any one sees you.” She had an excellent sense of values, Ginger’s Aunt Fan, and she let the girl keep true to type in her selections--a mannish coat suit of heather brown jersey, sport blouse of rough creamy silk, snub-nosed little Scotch brogues and wool stockings, fabric gloves with gauntlet cuffs and smart buckles, and a small brown hat which had plenty of assurance even without its stab of burnt orange. “_Now_,” said Mrs. Featherstone with a sigh of deep relief, “let’s go!” They went tirelessly, late forenoons and solid afternoons and Ginger had presently a large trunkful of clever clothes--gay ginghams and crisp organdies, boldly plaided sport skirts and sweaters in solid colors to match, and two evening frocks (though these Ginger protested she would never need) in scarlet and persimmon. “I’m having a color spree,” said Aunt Fan. “All the things I’d adore to wear and can’t.” They were at Dos Pozos four days before Dean Wolcott was due. Mrs. Featherstone had been watching her niece narrowly. “What’s he like, this chap?” she had wanted to know a day or so after Ginger had come to her. The girl waited an instant before answering. “I--don’t know, Aunt Fan.” “You don’t know?” The girl shook her head. “You see, he was only at the ranch one day, and he slept most of that--he was so exhausted. I don’t believe I saw him for two hours in all.” Aunt Fan stared. “Well--but you must have formed some impression. What do you _think_ he’s like, if you don’t know?”