eard I'd written to Jack. But
when I told her the next day that I expected you, too, she got mad all
over, and we had a lively talk-fest. What was there wrong in my having
you and the Dysarts here at the same time? Don't you get on?"

"Charmingly," replied Duane airily.... "It will be very interesting, I
think. Is there anybody else here?"

"Delancy Grandcourt. Isn't he the dead one? But Geraldine wanted him.
And there's that stick of a Quest girl, and Bunbury Gray. Naida came
over this afternoon from the Tappans' at Iron Hill--thank goodness----"

"I didn't know my sister was to be here."

"Yes; and you make twelve, counting Geraldine and me and the Pink 'uns."

"You didn't tell me it was to be a round-up," repeated Duane, absently
surveying his chintz-hung quarters. "This is a pretty place you've given
me. Where do you get all your electric lights? Where do you get fancy
plumbing in this wilderness?"

"Our own plant," explained the boy proudly. "Isn't that corking water?
Look at it--heavenly cold and clear, or hot as hell, whichever way
you're inclined--" turning on a silver spigot chiselled like a cherub.
"That water comes from Cloudy Lake, up there on that dome-shaped
mountain. Here, stand here beside me, Duane, and you can see it from
your window. That's the Gilded Dome--that big peak. It's in our park.
There are a few elk on it, not many, because they'd starve out the deer.
As it is, we have to cut browse in winter. For Heaven's sake, hurry,
man! Get into your bath and out again, or we'll miss the trout jumping
along Gray Water and Hurryon Brook."

"Let 'em jump!" retorted Duane, forcibly ejecting his host from the room
and locking the door. Then, lighting a cigarette, he strolled into the
bath room and started the water running into the porcelain tub.

He was in excellent spirits, quite undisturbed by the unexpected
proximity of Rosalie Dysart or the possible renewal of their hitherto
slightly hazardous friendship. He laid his cigarette aside for the
express purpose of whistling while undressing.

Half an hour later, bathed, shaved, and sartorially freshened, he
selected a blue corn-flower from the rural bouquet on his dresser, drew
it through his buttonhole, gave a last alluring twist to his tie,
surveyed himself in the mirror, whistled a few bars, was perfectly
satisfied with himself, then, unlocking the door, strolled out into the
corridor. Having no memory for direction, he took the wrong turn.

A