“This car is closed for the night, sah.  Is you the gen’leman from the stateroom in fourteen?  Do you want a lower?”

“No, thank you.  Is there a smoking car?”

“They is the day-coach smokah, but it ain’t likely very clean at this time o’ night.”

“That’s all right.  It’s forward?” Claude absently handed him a coin, and the porter conducted him to a very dirty car where the floor was littered with newspapers and cigar stumps, and the leather cushions were grey with dust.  A few desperate looking men lay about with their shoes off and their suspenders hanging down their backs.  The sight of them reminded Claude that his left foot was very sore, and that his shoes must have been hurting him for some time.  He pulled them off, and thrust his feet, in their silk socks, on the opposite seat.

On that long, dirty, uncomfortable ride Claude felt many things, but the paramount feeling was homesickness.  His hurt was of a kind that made him turn with a sort of aching cowardice to the old, familiar things that were as sure as the sunrise.  If only the sagebrush plain, over which the stars were shining, could suddenly break up and resolve itself into the windings of Lovely Creek, with his father’s house on the hill, dark and silent in the summer night!  When he closed his eyes he could see the light in his mother’s window; and, lower down, the glow of Mahailey’s lamp, where she sat nodding and mending his old shirts.  Human love was a wonderful thing, he told himself, and it was most wonderful where it had least to gain.

By morning the storm of anger, disappointment, and humiliation that was boiling in him when he first sat down in the 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.