And now--I should let those good people know your
name."
A moment--unflinching and steady--she looked into his face.
"It is Joanne, the name you have made famous as the dreadfulest
woman in fiction. Joanne Gray."
"I am sorry," he said, and bowed low. "Come. If I am not mistaken I
smell new-baked bread."
As they moved on he suddenly touched her arm. She felt for a moment
the firm clasp of his fingers. There was a new light in his eyes, a glow
of enthusiasm.
"I have it!" he cried. "You have brought it to me--the idea. I have been
wanting a name for her--the woman in my new book. She is to be a
tremendous surprise. I haven't found a name, until now--one that fits. I
shall call her Ladygray!"
He felt the girl flinch. He was surprised at the sudden startled look that
shot into her eyes, the swift ebbing of the colour from her cheeks. He
drew away his hand at the strange change in her. He noticed how
quickly she was breathing--that the fingers of her white hands were
clasped tensely.
"You object," he said.
"Not enough to keep you from using it," she replied in a low voice. "I
owe you a great deal." He noted, too, how quickly she had recovered
herself. Her head was a little higher. She looked toward the tents. "You
were not mistaken," she added. "I smell new-made bread!"
"And I shall emphasize the first half of it--Ladygray," said John Aldous,
as if speaking to himself. "That diminutizes it, you might say--gives it
the touch of sentiment I want. You can imagine a lover saying 'Dear
little Ladygray, are you warm and comfy?' He wouldn't say Ladygray
as if she wore a coronet, would he?"
"Smell-o'-bread--fresh bread!" sniffed Joanne Gray, as if she had not
heard him. "It's making me hungry. Will you please hurry me to it,
John Aldous?"
They were approaching the first of the three tent-houses, over which
was a crudely painted sign which read "Otto Brothers, Guides and
Outfitters." It was a large, square tent, with weather-faded red and blue
stripes, and from it came the cheerful sound of a woman's laughter.
Half a dozen trampish-looking Airedale terriers roused themselves
languidly as they drew nearer. One of them stood up and snarled.
"They won't hurt you," assured Aldous. "They belong to Jack Bruce
and Clossen Otto--the finest bunch of grizzly dogs in the Rockies."
Another moment, and a woman had appeared in the door. "And that is
Mrs. Jack Otto," he added under his breath. "If all women were like her
I wouldn't have written the things you have read!"
He might have added that she was Scotch. But this was not necessary.
The laughter was still in her good-humoured face. Aldous looked at his
companion, and he found her smiling back. The eyes of the two women
had already met.
Briefly Aldous explained what had happened at Quade's, and that the
young woman was leaving on the Tête Jaune train. The good-humoured
smile left Mrs. Otto's face when he mentioned Quade.
"I've told Jack I'd like to poison that man some day," she cried. "You
poor dear, come in, I'll get you a cup of tea."
"Which always means dinner in the Otto camp," added Aldous.
"I'm not so hungry, but I'm tired--so tired," he heard the girl say as she
went in with Mrs. Otto, and there was a new and strangely pathetic note
in her voice. "I want to rest--until the train goes."
He followed them in, and stood for a moment near the door.
"There's a room in there, my dear," said the woman, drawing back a
curtain. "Make yourself at home, and lie down on the bed until I have
the tea ready."
When the curtain had closed behind her, John Aldous spoke in a low
voice to the woman.
"Will you see her safely to the train, Mrs. Otto?" he asked. "It leaves at
a quarter after two. I must be going."
He felt that he had sufficiently performed his duty. He left the tent, and
paused for a moment outside to touzle affectionately the trampish heads
of the bear dogs. Then he turned away, whistling. He had gone a dozen
steps when a low voice stopped him. He turned. Joanne had come from
the door.
For one moment he stared as if something more wonderful than
anything he had ever seen had risen before him. The girl was
bareheaded, and she stood in a sun mellowed by a film of cloud. Her
head was piled with lustrous coils of gold-brown hair that her hat and
veil had hidden. Never had he looked upon such wonderful hair,
crushed and crumpled back from her smooth forehead; nor such
marvellous whiteness of skin and
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