f your continent."

He seemed still light of heart at the sudden end to his wanderings and
isolation, and they forgot the troupe and chatted about his ranch. He
had much to ask and his sponsor more to tell.

The theatrical party appeared to finish their breakfast simultaneously.
Three, including the soubrette, reached under the table, dislodged the
morsel of gum they had mechanically attached to the under side of the
board, closed on it with a snap, and filed out. Most of them looked
quite cheerful. Several bowed to Gwynne. The soubrette gave him a
haughty suspicious nod.

"She looked at me like that last night," said Gwynne, complainingly.
"What designs does she attribute to me? I never treated any one with
more respect."

"They are all like that when they are respectable. Their fierce
Americanism resents any hint of patronage. Later on they invite it. You
will find these waitresses--the class, as a rule, is thoroughly
decent--much the same in manner."

Two girls, white clad, their extended arms loaded with dishes, were
stalking about the room, anaemic, disdainful. A portly woman, whom Isabel
knew to be the mother of a brood, was far more anxious to please. She
came up to the table in the corner and asked Gwynne affably if his
coffee was "all right" and if he was a stranger in "these parts." He was
under Isabel's amused eye, but he acquitted himself with credit; and
when he rose from the table she thanked him indifferently for his tip,
but her eyes glowed softly. It was rarely thought worth while to tip a
mere waitress.

V

As they rode slowly down the hill towards Main Street Gwynne examined
his cousin from head to foot, but, he prided himself, out of the corner
of his eye. She wore a dust-colored habit with divided skirt, and a soft
felt hat and gloves of the same shade. Her horse was a very light
chestnut, and he was obliged to confess that the effect was harmonious,
although this Western style of riding by no means pleased his fastidious
taste.

Isabel shot him an amused glance. "You don't approve of women riding
astride," she said. "We invented it; although it is now the fashion in
many other parts of America. Necessity is the mother of most fashions.
Wait till you see our mountain roads. They are a disgrace to
civilization--so broken and narrow that even in summer it is dangerous
for a woman to ride a side-saddle, and in winter impossible. I have
forgotten how, and that is the reason I never ro