"I'm sorry for her myself," declared the man on the other side as he
hung the returned key on its board. "This is the third time that poor
little woman's had to leave before she could finish what she came for on
account of the expense. But what can we do?" He shrugged his shoulders.
"The St. Catherine isn't exactly a Y. W. C. A."

"What is it she's trying to do?"

Amusement deepened in the man's eyes.

"She's supposed to be painting Indians."

"Indians!" To the amazement of the other man Blair suddenly leaned
forward, his eyes agleam with interest.

"But I didn't know there were any around here."

"There aren't."

"Then how - ?"

"Makes 'em up out of her head, I guess. I never heard that she had even
a model."

"But - but what I want to know is why she comes here at all?" The
situation seemed to Blair to offer possibilities, yet he was thoroughly
puzzled. "I met a fellow on the train who does that sort of thing, but
he always goes to the desert to paint, - at least he said he did."