Wilbur left the house of mourning and went out to the barn, where all that day he worked at the Can, fretting it at last into a decent activity.
Dave Cowan that night became gay and tasteless on hearing the news. He did what he could to fan the judge's resentment. He said it was probably, knowing Winona's ways, that she had wed a dissolute French nobleman, impoverished of all but his title. He hoped for the best, but he had always known that the girl was a light-minded baggage. He wondered how she could ever justify her course to Matthew Arnold if the need rose. He said the old house would now be turned into a saloon, or salong, as the French call it. He wished to be told if the right to be addressed as Madame la Marquise could compensate the child for those things of simple but enduring worth she had cast aside. He somewhat cheered Mrs. Penniman, but left the judge puffing with scorn.
Wilbur Cowan met the noon train next day. The Can rattled far too much for its size, but it went. Then from the train issued Winona, bedecked in alien gauds and fur-belows, her keen little face radiant under a Paris trifle of brown velvet, her small feet active—under a skirt whose scant length would once have appalled her—in brown suede pumps and stockings notoriously of silken texture. Her quick eyes darting along the platform to where Wilbur stood, she rushed to embrace him.
"Where's the other one?" he demanded.
Astoundingly she tripped back to the still emptying car and led forward none other than Edward—Spike—Brennon. He was in the uniform of a private and his eyes were hidden by dark glasses. Wilbur fell upon him. Spike's left arm went up expertly to guard his face from the rush, but came down when he recognized his assailant. Wilbur turned again to Winona.
"But where's he?" he asked. "Where's the main squeeze?"
Winona looked proudly at Spike Brennon.
"I'm him," said Spike.
"He's him," said Winona, and laid an arm protectingly across his shoulder.