rom Spofford is late," he said. "It's due now."
He pitched his head up like a dog. "There she is!" he exclaimed. There was
the rumble of a train crossing the bridge. "They'll be coming in right
away." He indicated the empty tables by a glance.

Harboro knew all about the train schedules and such matters. He knew that
American tourists bound for Mexico would be coming over on that train, and
that they would have an hour for dinner while their baggage was passing
through the hands of the customs officials.

They had given their orders and were still waiting when the train pulled
in at the station, close at hand, and in a moment the dining-room became
noisy.

"Travel seems pretty light," commented Peterson. He appeared to be trying
to make conversation; he was obviously under some sort of constraint.
Still, he had the genuine interest of the railroader in the subjects he
mentioned.

Harboro had not observed that there was not even one woman among the
travellers who entered; but Peterson noted the fact, mentioning it in the
tone of one who has been deprived of a natural right. And Harboro wondered
what was the matter with a man who saw the whole world, always, solely in
relation to women. He sensed the fact that Peterson was not entirely
comfortable. "He's probably never grown accustomed to being in the company
of a decent woman," he concluded. He tried to launch the subject of old
associates. It seemed that Peterson had been out in Durango for some time,
but he had kept in touch with most of the fellows on the line to the City.
He began to talk easily, and Harboro was enjoying the meeting even before
the waiter came back with their food.

Sylvia was ill at ease. She was glad that Harboro and Peterson had found
something to talk about. She began to eat the amber-colored grapes the
waiter had placed before her. She seemed absent-minded, absorbed in her
own thoughts. And then she forgot self in the contemplation of a man and a
child who had come in and taken a table at the other end of the
dining-room. The man wore a band of crape around his arm. The child, a
little girl of five or six, had plainly sobbed herself into a condition
verging upon stupor. She was not eating the dinner which had been brought
to her, though she occasionally glanced with miserable eyes at one dish or
another. She seemed unable to help herself, and at intervals a dry sob
shook her tiny body.

Sylvia forgot the grapes beside her plate; she was lo