other was sometimes inclined to give himself airs. Anderson drew in
his tentacles a little; ready indeed to be wroth with himself that he
had talked so much of his own affairs to this little lady the day
before. What possible interest could she have taken in them!

All the same, he could not tear himself from her side. Whenever Delaine
left his seat by the lake, and strolled round the corner of the wood to
reconnoitre, the result was always the same. If Anderson and Lady
Merton were in sight at all, near or far, they were together. He
returned, disconsolate, to Homer and the reeds.

As they went back to Winnipeg, some chance word revealed to Elizabeth
that Anderson also was taking the night train for Calgary.

"Oh! then to-morrow you will come and talk to us!" cried Elizabeth,
delighted.

Her cordial look, the pretty gesture of her head, evoked in Anderson a
start of pleasure. He was not, however, the only spectator of them.
Arthur Delaine, standing by, thought for the first time in his life that
Elizabeth's manner was really a little excessive.

The car left Winnipeg that night for the Rockies. An old man, in a
crowded emigrant car, with a bundle under his arm, watched the arrival
of the Gaddesden party. He saw Anderson accost them on the platform, and
then make his way to his own coach just ahead of them.

The train sped westwards through the Manitoba farms and villages.
Anderson slept intermittently, haunted by various important affairs that
were on his mind, and by recollections of the afternoon. Meanwhile, in
the front of the train, the paragraph from the _Winnipeg Chronicle_ lay
carefully folded in an old tramp's waistcoat pocket.

CHAPTER V

"I say, Elizabeth, you're not going to sit out there all day, and get
your death of cold? Why don't you come in and read a novel like a
sensible woman?"

"Because I can read a novel at home--and I can't see Canada."

"See Canada! What is there to see?" The youth with the scornful voice
came to lean against the doorway beside her. "A patch of corn--miles and
miles of some withered stuff that calls itself grass, all of it as flat
as your hand--oh! and, by Jove! a little brown fellow--gopher, is that
their silly name?--scootling along the line. Go it, young 'un!" Philip
shied the round end of a biscuit tin after the disappearing brown thing.
"A boggy lake with a kind of salt fringe--unhealthy and horrid and
beastly--a wretched farm building--et cetera, et cetera!"