“I’ll bet she admires him,” thought Robert, following her gaze to the impassive face. “He’s a winner. If he only had his hearing he’d make us all take notice.”
Robert shook his head with the fleeting sympathy of prosperous youth.
The sightseers began to gravitate toward the hotel, and this trio moved with them.
Within the inn all was warmth and light. A Brobdingnagian corn-popper was produced, and one of the open fires being reduced to the proper condition, a cheerful crackling began as the corn bounded high in its ample prison.
“We’re in the land of bigness, Mrs. Nixon,” said Mrs. Bruce, as they sat at a comfortable distance from the heat.
“Indeed, yes,” returned that lady. “I was just saying to Miss Maynard that apparently the mountains set the pace here.”
As she spoke, Mrs. Nixon looked graciously at her companion, who occupied a neighboring chair.
“Were you, indeed!” thought Mrs. Bruce, amused. “I’m glad you’ve found out you can say something to the girl!”
“Irving,” she said aloud, looking up at her son as he stood, tall and abstracted, staring into the mammoth fire, “why don’t you take Miss Maynard up to the Lookout. There must be a glorious view from there to-night.”