VIII
ON the first day of September Fred Ottenburg and Thea Kronborg left Flagstaff by the east-bound express. As the bright morning advanced, they sat alone on the rear platform of the observation car, watching the yellow miles unfold and disappear. With complete content they saw the brilliant, empty country flash by. They were tired of the desert and the dead races, of a world without change or ideas. Fred said he was glad to sit back and let the Santa Fé do the work for a while.
"And where are we going, anyhow?" he added.
"To Chicago, I suppose. Where else would we be going?" Thea hunted for a handkerchief in her hand bag.
"I was n't sure, so I had the trunks checked to Albuquerque. We can recheck there to Chicago, if you like. Why Chicago? You 'll never go back to Bowers. Why would n't this be a good time to make a run for it? We could take the southern branch at Albuquerque, down to El Paso, and then over into Mexico. We are exceptionally free. Nobody waiting for us anywhere."
Thea sighted along the steel rails that quivered in the light behind them. "I don't see why I could n't marry you in Chicago, as well as any place," she brought out with some embarrassment.
Fred took the handbag out of her nervous clasp and swung it about on his finger. "You 've no particular love for that spot, have you? Besides, as I 've told you, my family would make a row. They are an excitable lot. They discuss and argue everlastingly. The only way I can ever put anything through is to go ahead, and convince them afterward."
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