eau, by the foot of the bed, as she moved
about the room, hanging up the wet suit, rubbing herself with a slippery
towel, putting on a dark silk frock and pumps. She found her father
sitting motionless in his room, staring at the wall. She made herself
laugh at him for his gloomy emptiness. She paraded down the hall with
him.

As they reached the foot of the stairs, the old one, the night clerk
leaned across the desk and, in a voice that took the whole office into
the conversation, quizzed, "Come from New York, eh? Well, you're quite a
ways from home."

Claire nodded. She felt shyer before these solemnly staring traveling
men than she ever had in a box at the opera. At the double door of the
dining-room, from which the cabbage smell steamed with a lustiness
undiminished by the sad passing of its youth, a man, one of the
average-sized, average-mustached, average business-suited,
average-brown-haired men who can never be remembered, stopped the
Boltwoods and hawed, "Saw you coming into town. You've got a New York
license?"

She couldn't deny it.

"Quite a ways from home, aren't you?"

She had to admit it.

She was escorted by a bouncing, black-eyed waitress to a table for four.
The next table was a long one, at which seven traveling men, or local
business men whose wives were at the lake for the summer, ceased trying
to get nourishment out of the food, and gawped at her. Before the
Boltwoods were seated, the waitress dabbed at non-existent spots on
their napkins, ignored a genuine crumb on the cloth in front of Claire's
plate, made motions at a cup and a formerly plated fork, and bubbled,
"Autoing through?"

Claire fumbled for her chair, oozed into it, and breathed, "Yes."

"Going far?"

"Yes."

"Where do you live?"

"New York."

"My! You're quite a ways from home, aren't you?"

"Apparently."

"Hamnegs roasbeef roaspork thapplesauce frypickerel springlamintsauce."

"I--I beg your pardon."

The waitress repeated.

"I--oh--oh, bring us ham and eggs. Is that all right, father?"

"Oh--no--well----"

"You wanted same?" the waitress inquired of Mr. Boltwood.

He was intimidated. He said, "If you please," and feebly pawed at a
fork.

The waitress was instantly back with soup, and a collection of china
gathered by a man of much travel, catholic interests, and no taste. One
of the plates alleged itself to belong to a hotel in Omaha. She pushed
a pitcher of condensed milk to the exact spot where it wo