observation car, had died out. One thing lingered; the peculiarly casual, indifferent, uninterested tone of his wife’s voice when she sent him away. It was the flat tone in which people make commonplace remarks about common things.
Day broke with silvery brightness on the summer sage. The sky grew pink, the sand grew gold. The dawn-wind brought through the windows the acrid smell of the sagebrush: an odour that is peculiarly stimulating in the early morning, when it always seems to promise freedom . . . large spaces, new beginnings, better days.
The train was due in Denver at eight o’clock. Exactly at seven thirty Claude knocked at Enid’s door,—this time firmly. She was dressed, and greeted him with a fresh, smiling face, holding her hat in her hand.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked.
“Oh, yes! I am perfectly all right this morning. I’ve put out all your things for you, there on the seat.”
He glanced at them. “Thank you. But I won’t have time to change, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, won’t you? I’m so sorry I forgot to give you your bag last night. But you must put on another necktie, at least. You look too much like a groom.”
“Do I?” he asked, with a scarcely perceptible curl of his lip.
Everything he needed was neatly arranged on the plush seat; shirt, collar, tie, brushes, even a handkerchief. Those in his pockets were black from dusting off the cinders that blew in all night, and he threw them down and took up the clean one. There was a damp spot on it, and as he unfolded it he recognized the scent of a cologne Enid often used. For some reason this attention unmanned him. He felt the smart of tears in his eyes, and to hide them bent over the metal basin
