Marshall had gone without apprehension. They did not expect now to have setbacks, to have to extend the time set for the ultimate diversion. The days were flowing like oil.
The encampment was filling up with visitors, newspaper men who came to report the spectacular capture of the river. Gerty was finding some opportunities for her chafing-dish and lingerie gowns, but the fish felt small to her net. The attention she received assuaged little of her pride. “At any rate, Rickard will see it.” On the Delta, for the young engineers were relaxing again toward hospitality, she was a belle. Every afternoon, she served tea to a small court.
Brandon came down, sent by the Sun, his old paper. Rickard had the newcomer’s tent pitched next his own. He was anticipating snatches of intimacy with this cosmopolitan, whose sweetness he felt sure was the ripe result of some deep experience. His few hours in the Imperial tent had discovered to him a rare brain. He was keen to see more of him.
The day after his arrival, Brandon sent a telegram to his wife. He told Rickard about it afterward.
“I suppose I should have asked you first,” he admitted. “I may have taken a liberty!”
“I think you couldn’t do that,” smiled Rickard. “This camp is yours, señor!”
“Impulse does not often carry me away.” The trim-cut, dog-like face of the irrigationist frowned. “I should have asked you. But seeing other women here gave me the idea, I suppose. I telegraphed for Mrs. Brandon to join me here.”
Deliberately Rickard controlled the muscles of his face. Every one else knew what he thought about women in camp. He hoped that he would not be quoted to Brandon.
“It is a little different, I think, from ordinary cases,” Brandon was working up a justification. “Mrs. Brandon is a writer of fiction, of some note. You have run across her books, her pen name—George Verne.”
Rickard’s face held back the surprise of it. A smile suffused his mind. Brandon, the classicist, the Sun’s pet man, a specialist on irrigation, related by marriage to The Cowboy’s Bride! He acknowledged that he knew her by name, had seen her books. He had been in remote places, where English matter is scarce, and had often found George Verne usurping the shelves.