“Quite thoroughly,” she replied briefly.
“We went the regular round,” said Mrs. Nixon. “Your uncle was really bewitched with everything.”
Mr. Derwent, his hands crossed upon the head of the stick he carried, sat in the isolation of the deaf; his eyes fastened upon the delicate and wonderful coloring of the stationary cascades of deposit, over which the water was trickling; building – ever building greater beauty with its puny persistence.
He caught his nephew’s eye with a good-humored twinkle. “Great example of what industry will do,” he remarked.
“Fierce!” replied Robert, and made an energetic dive for the rubber disk, which his uncle foiled by a quick move. The youth fixed Mr. Derwent with his gaze, and moved his lips with care to be distinct.
“I’ve always refused,” he declared loudly, “to have the busy bee or the coral insect thrown at me; and I now add the Yellowstone water to the black list.”
“If words,” replied Mr. Derwent, “could build anything, you would rear temples of amazing height, Robert.”
“And rare beauty,” added the youth. “Don’t forget that, please.”
Miss Hickey changed her gum to the other side of her mouth. “Ain’t he fresh?” she murmured to her companion. “Did you see the look I gave him when he come up to the stage? I tell you I wasn’t goin’ to have him crowdin’ in here with us.”
“I waited on them at breakfast,” murmured Rosalie. “He’s just jolly all the time.”
Miss Hickey bridled. “Well, he wouldn’t jolly me more’n once. I know his kind: awful fresh;” and the gum gave a vault and turn which only the most experienced can accomplish.
“And they’re all friends!” murmured Rosalie apprehensively.
“Oh, brace up!” returned Miss Hickey impatiently. “If you haven’t stolen their spoons I don’t see what you’re so scared of; and you’re too much of a baby to have done that.”
“No, I never – never lived out anywhere,” breathed Rosalie.
“Well, if you think it’s such a disgrace to be a waitress in the Park, what did you come for?”
As Miss Hickey scented offense, her tone began to rise, and Rosalie grasped her arm pacifically. “No, no, it isn’t that! It isn’t in the least that!”
The girl’s conscience squirmed a little as she made this reply, and she swallowed and went on. “It’s a long story, too long to tell, and not interesting; but oh, Miss Hickey, do try to wait on the Bruces this noon, won’t you, like a dear good girl!”
“’Twon’t be up to me; but I’d be mighty glad to do it, you bet! Did you hear that fresh chap call him Bruty? Bruty! That prince! Well, I’ve got a name for him all right. Did you ever study about them heathen gods? I did. I’ve got an awful good education if I do say it; and there was one of ’em so ugly if he walked by a clock it would stop. His name was – let’s see; it was Calabash. Well, it just fits that feller to a T. If I looked like that, I’d go way back and sit down instead of fillin’ the stage so’t nobody can look at anybody but him.”
“The girl with them seems to be a companion,” whispered Rosalie. “I tried to get that sort of a place.”
“Oh, shoot!” returned Miss Hickey, trying the endurance of the gum severely. “I could get that job easy, I know, on account of my education and knowin’ my way round the way I do; but there ain’t enough freedom to it. If we’d rather go to a Swattie ball now than to sleep, we have our choice; but a companion has got to be right on the job night and day.”
Rosalie looked off at the distant mountains, and then back at the nape of Miss Maynard’s pretty neck, and began to wonder if she was as lonely as herself. Apparently Mrs. Nixon addressed no one except her son, and Rosalie guessed that Miss Maynard, placed behind her employer’s cold shoulder, was in reality as far removed from her as she herself felt with regard to her neighbor.
The beautiful, beautiful world! Rosalie sighed and leaned forward, the better to get the splendid sweep of vale and mountain, and suddenly caught the eyes of Robert Nixon, his arm thrown along the back of the seat as he turned to converse with his mother. Rosalie shrank back into her corner. Betsy Foster might turn around, too!
CHAPTER VII
THE NATIONAL PARK
Perched on the driver’s seat, with Irving beside her, Mrs. Bruce was as near the zenith of contentment as falls to the lot of mortal.
The driver himself, philosopher as he was, discovered in the first three miles that it would not be necessary for him to volunteer any information, as everything he knew would be extracted from him, down to the last dregs of supposition.
“Three thousand feet of ascent in a mile, Irving! Think of it!” exclaimed Mrs. Bruce, as they neared the Hoodoo Rocks.
“I’d rather think of an ascent of one thousand feet in three miles,” returned Irving. “It’s less strain on the brain.”
The driver gave him an appreciative glance across Mrs. Bruce’s smart traveling hat.
“Oh, is that it?” she rejoined. “Perhaps I did get it a little twisted.”
Here they came in full view of the desert of gaunt, pallid trees, amid the gigantic Hoodoo Rocks.
“Oh, what a dreadful scene!” exclaimed Mrs. Bruce. “Such a dreary stretch of death and desolation! Driver, why do they allow such a thing in the Park?”
A hunted expression came into the driver’s eyes. He had been gradually growing more and more mechanical in his replies. Now he maintained a stony silence.
“If I were here at night, alone,” continued Mrs. Bruce, “I should go straight out of my mind! I’m so temperamental I could not – I really could not bear it;” and she shuddered.
“Then I positively forbid your coming here alone at night,” declared Irving. “We must preserve your mind, Madama, at all costs.”
“But it’s a blot on the Park. It’s more suggestive than the worst Doré picture. Boo!” Mrs. Bruce shuddered again, and looked fearfully at the dead forest, sparse and wild, rearing its barkless trunks amid the giant rocks of wild and threatening form. “The government ought to do something about it.”
“You flatter Uncle Sam,” said Irving. “I don’t think any one else expects him to move mountains.”
“Well, they might train vines over it,” suggested Mrs. Bruce; and the driver burst into some sound which ended in a fit of coughing, while Irving laughed.
The sudden beauty of the scenery diverted Mrs. Bruce from her plans for reform. Her enthusiasm over the view led her to turn and look down to catch Betsy’s eye.
“Are you seeing?” she cried.
Betsy nodded several times to express appreciation.
“It’s just like life, isn’t it?” went on Mrs. Bruce pensively to her son. “Full of startling contrasts. Do you know, Irving, I think Mr. Nixon is talking to Betsy?”
“No doubt he remembers her,” returned Irving. “He has seen her as often as he has you.”
“That’s true; but it’s nice of him, just the same.”
Irving smiled. “Nixie’s got to talk,” he remarked.
“But you know,” said Mrs. Bruce, “there are snobs in the world.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I like Mr. Nixon, anyway,” she went on argumentatively. “It isn’t necessary for a man to be handsome.”
Irving sighed. “What a blessed relief that you think so, Madama! Otherwise I’m sure you’d call upon the Creator, and make it a subject of prayer.”
“Irving,