The rear half of the observation train was occupied by the new Sunrise Hill Camp Fire club. Mrs. Polly Burton, the new Camp Fire guardian, sat by one of the windows, glancing out at the great grain fields through which their train was cutting its way like a mammoth thrashing machine.
She was elegantly dressed in a tailored suit of dark blue cloth; and behind her hung a fur coat for use in case the weather should turn suddenly cold. Her bags and all her appurtenances of travel showed wealth and luxury, and yet, in spite of all this and of her distinguished reputation, the great lady herself looked fragile and subdued. Indeed, she bore a striking resemblance to the very Polly O’Neill who so often used to start out on a task in a sudden burst of enthusiasm, only to find later that she had scarcely the ability or strength to go on.
Not alone did Bettina believe that the new club was an oddly assorted group!
Only in Chicago had they actually begun their journey to the West together.
Some time before, Mrs. Burton had left her sister’s home in New Hampshire and in Chicago joined her husband, who was playing there during the late spring season. A few days before, Mr. and Mrs. Webster had come on from their home to Chicago in order to chaperon the new group of Camp Fire girls that far along the way. There they had been joined by Mrs. Burton and one other new club member besides Polly’s French maid, Marie.
Marie had traveled with Polly everywhere since her marriage, having charge of her clothes—both her stage and personal ones—and striving, though vainly, to turn her mistress into the fashionable, conventional character it was impossible for her ever to be.
At present Marie was hovering about, paying Polly small attentions which annoyed her, and which she felt were not good for the intimacy she hoped to establish with her Camp Fire girls.
Personally she wished to forget her usual style of life—the fatigue, the excitement, even her own success—and to have the girls forget it. But Marie was a constant and persistent reminder of all these things. Yet when she had suggested to Marie that she remain behind, as she would dislike a western camp, Marie had burst into such French tears and such French protestations that Mrs. Burton, who was never very firm where her affections were concerned, had given in.
Now Marie was really the most trying member of the ill-assorted party.
“Do please go back to your own place and leave me alone, Marie,” Mrs. Burton finally said, unable longer to conceal her irritation. “I am not a hopeless invalid and, even if I were, I should not wish you to be constantly pushing cushions behind my back.”