“Fleetwood was detained. You were expecting to--you're the lady he was expecting, aren't you?” She had been looking questioningly at her violin box and two trunks standing on their ends farther down the platform, and she smiled vaguely without glancing at him. “Yes. I hope he isn't sick, or--” “I'll take you over to the hotel, and go tell him you're here,” he volunteered, somewhat curtly, and picked up her bag. “Oh, thank you.” This time her eyes grazed his face inattentively. She followed him down the rough steps of planking and up an extremely dusty road--one could scarcely call it a street--to an uninviting building with crooked windows and a high, false front of unpainted boards. The young fellow opened a sagging door, let her pass into a narrow hallway, and from there into a stuffy, hopelessly conventional fifth-rate parlor, handed her the bag, and departed with another tilt of the hat which placed it at a different angle. The sentence meant for farewell she did not catch, for she was staring at a wooden-faced portrait upon an easel, the portrait of a man with a drooping mustache, and porky cheeks, and dead-looking eyes. “And I expected bearskin rugs, and antlers on the walls, and big fireplaces!” she remarked aloud, and sighed. Then she turned and pulled aside a coarse curtain of dusty, machine-made lace, and looked after her guide. He was just disappearing into a saloon across the street, and she dropped the curtain precipitately, as if she were ashamed of spying. “Oh, well--I've heard all cowboys are more or less intemperate,” she excused, again aloud. She sat down upon an atrocious red plush chair, and wrinkled her nose spitefully at the porky-cheeked portrait. “I suppose you're the proprietor,” she accused, “or else the proprietor's son. I wish you wouldn't squint like that. If I have to stop here longer than ten minutes, I shall certainly turn you face to the wall.” Whereupon, with another grimace, she turned her back upon it and looked out of the window. Then she stood up impatiently, looked at her watch, and sat down again upon the red plush chair. “He didn't tell me whether Manley is sick,” she said suddenly, with some resentment. “He was awfully abrupt in his manner. Oh, you--” She rose, picked up an old newspaper from the marble-topped table with uncertain legs, and spread it ungently over the portrait upon the easel. Then she went to the window and looked out again. “I feel perfectly sure that cowboy went and got drunk immediately,” she complained, drumming pettishly upon the glass. “And I don't suppose he told Manley at all.”