"Well, what have you been doing?" he asked as he sat down, fresh from his bath, and relaxed comfortably in anticipation of a pleasant dinner. Isabelle made a great point of dinner, having it served formally by two maids, with five courses and at least one wine, "to get used to living properly," as she explained vaguely.
"Mrs. Adams called." She was the wife of the manager of the baking-powder works and president of the country club, a young married woman from a Western city with pretensions to social experience. "John," Isabelle added after mentioning this name, "do you think we shall have to stay here long?"
Her husband paused in eating his soup to look at her. "Why—why?"
"It's so second-classy," she continued; "at least the women are, mostly. There's only one I've met so far that seemed like other people one has known."
"Who is she?" Lane inquired, ignoring the large question.
"Mrs. Falkner."
"Rob Falkner's wife? He's engineer at the Pleasant Valley mines."
"She came from Denver."
"They say he's a clever engineer."
"She is girlish and charming. She told me all about every one in Torso.
She's been here two years, and she seems to know everybody."