“Sidney! Sidney! Twenty minutes for breakfast!” the brakeman bawled, from the door.
There was the general stir. My Lady shot a glance at me, with inviting eyes, but arose in response to the proffered arm of the conductor, and I was late. The aisle filled between us as he ushered her on and the train slowed to grinding of brakes and the tremendous clanging of a gong. 37
Of Sidney there was little to see: merely a station-house and the small Railroad Hotel, with a handful of other buildings forming a single street—all squatting here near a rock quarry that broke the expanse of uninhabited brown plains. The air, however, was wonderfully invigorating; the meal excellent, as usual; and when I emerged from the dining-room, following closely a black figure crowned with gold, I found her strolling alone upon the platform.
Therefore I caught up with her. She faced me with ready smile.
“You are rather slow in action, sir,” she lightly accused. “We might have breakfasted together; but it was the conductor again, after all.”
“I plead guilty, madam,” I admitted. “The trainmen have an advantage over me, in anticipating events. But the next meal shall be my privilege. We stop again before reaching Benton?”
“For dinner, yes; at Cheyenne.”
“And after that you will be home.”
“Home?” she queried, with a little pucker between her brows.
“Yes. At Benton.”