“Positively one could die of ennui in this wilderness,” she continued. “Do you know you are a welcome addition to our band? But you will have to make yourself very agreeable. I suppose”––archly––“you were very agreeable in the property wagon?”
“Miss Carew had a part to study,” he returned, coldly.
“A part to study!” In mock consternation. “How 98 I hate studying parts! They say what you wouldn’t, and don’t say what you would! But I’m off to bed,” rising impatiently. “I’m getting sleepy!”
“Sleepy!” echoed Barnes. “Take your choice! The Hotel du Omnibus”––indicating the chariot––“or the Villa Italienne?”––with a gesture toward a tent made of the drop curtain upon the walls of which was the picture of an Italian scene.
“The chariot for me,” answered Susan. “It is more high and dry and does not suggest spiders and other crawling things.”
“Good-night, then, and remember a good conscience makes a hard bed soft.”
“Then I shall sleep on down. I haven’t had a chance”––with a sigh––“to damage my conscience lately. But when I strike civilization again”––and Susan shook her head eloquently to conclude her sentence. “Oh, yes; if beds depend on conscience, boughs would be feathers for me to-night.” With which half-laughing, half-defiant conclusion, Susan tripped to the chariot, pausing a moment, however, to cast a reproachful glance over her shoulder at Saint-Prosper before vanishing in the cavernous depths of the vehicle of the muses.
Her departure was the signal for the dispersing of the party to their respective couches. Now the fire sank lower, the stars came out brighter and the moon arose and traveled majestically up the heavens, taking a brief but comprehensive survey of the habitations of mortals, and then, as if satisfied with her scrutiny, sailed back to the horizon and dropped out of sight.