tired of Millings?"

"Yes--very."

"I don't blame you! It's not much of a town. You'll like Hidden Creek.
And Miss Blake's ranch is a mighty pretty place, lonesome but wonderfully
pretty. Right on a bend of the creek, 'way up the valley, close under the
mountains. But can you stand loneliness, Miss--What _is_ your name?"

There were curious breaks in his manner of a Western cowboy, breaks that
startled Sheila like little echoes from her life abroad and in the East.
There was a quickness of voice and manner, an impatience, a hot and
nervous something, and his voice and accent suggested training. The
abrupt question, for instance, was not in the least characteristic of a
Westerner.

"My name is Sheila Arundel. I don't know yours either."

"Do you come from the East?"

"Yes. From New York." He gave an infinitesimal jerk. "But I've lived
abroad nearly all my life. I think it would be politer if you would
answer my question now."

She felt that he controlled an anxious breath. "My name is Hilliard," he
said, and he pronounced the name with a queer bitter accent as though the
taste of it was unpleasant to his tongue. "Cosme Hilliard. Don't you
think it's a--_nice_ name?"

For half a second she was silent; then she spoke with careful
unconsciousness. "Yes. Very nice and very unusual. Hilliard is an English
name, isn't it? Where did the Cosme come from?"

It was well done, so well that she felt a certain tightening of his body
relax and his voice sounded fuller. "That's Spanish. I've some Spanish
blood. Here's Buffin's ranch. We're getting down."

Sheila was remembering vividly; Sylvester had come into her compartment.
She could see the rolling Nebraskan country slipping by the window of the
train. She could see his sallow fingers folding the paper so that she
could conveniently read a paragraph. She remembered his gentle, pensive
speech. "Ain't it funny, though, those things happen in the slums and
they happen in the smart set, but they don't happen near so often to just
middling folks like you and me! Don't it sound like a Tenderloin tale,
though, South American wife and American husband and her getting jealous
and up and shooting him? Money sure makes love popular. Now, if it had
been poor folks, why, they'd have hardly missed a day's work, but just
because these Hilliards have got spondulix they'll run a paragraph about
'em in the papers for a month."--Sheila began to make comparisons: a
South American wife and