Gerry knew that the celebrated Mrs. Burton had taken a fancy to her and intended making the most of it.
Then Gerry’s prettiness also appealed strongly to Polly Burton. It was of the fair ethereal kind—an entire contrast to her own appearance. Moreover, one must remember how Polly O’Neill had always admired beauty and how great a point she had made of her friend Betty Ashton’s in their old Camp Fire days.
Although Gerry’s sympathy was not effective, Mrs. Burton knew how to check her maid’s tears.
“I am cold; will you please put my fur coat on me, Marie,” she suggested, whispering something consoling as Marie slipped her into it.
Then Mrs. Burton became nervous.
She and her Camp Fire party were standing alone on a deserted platform in a place which appeared to be a thousand miles from nowhere. For there was no one in sight except a little bent-over station master inside a kind of wooden box, who looked like a clay model of a man molded by an amateur artist.
As he did not emerge from his shack, Mrs. Burton started toward him.
Certainly she had expected that every arrangement for meeting them had been made beforehand, her husband having spent a small fortune on telegrams for this purpose.
However, she had gone but a few steps when the tallest man she ever remembered seeing came striding toward her.
“I guess this is the party looked for,” he remarked with an agreeable smile. “Arizona hasn’t seen such a bunch of pretty girls in a long spell. Come this way; my wife is expecting you at the ranch house, but I got tired waiting for you and have been loafing about in the neighborhood.”