Foyle watched them go, dancing, stumbling, calling back at him, as they
moved towards the Prairie Home Hotel:

"And he'll soon-and he'll soon-cinch you!"

His under lip came out, his eyes half-closed, as he watched them. "I've
done my last cinch. I've done my last cinch," he murmured.

Then, suddenly, the look in his face changed, the eyes swam as they had
done a minute before at the sight of the girl in the room behind.
Whatever his trouble was, that face had obscured it in a flash, and the
pools of feeling far down in the depths of a lonely nature had been
stirred. Recognition, memory, tenderness, desire swam in his face, made
generous and kind the hard lines of the strong mouth. In an instant he
had swung himself over the window-sill. The girl had drawn away now into
a more shaded corner of the room, and she regarded him with a mingled
anxiety and eagerness. Was she afraid of something? Did she fear that
--she knew not quite what, but it had to do with a long ago.

"It was time you hit out, Nett," she said, half shyly. "You're more
patient than you used to be, but you're surer. My, that was a twist you
gave him, Nett. Aren't you glad to see me?" she added hastily, and with
an effort to hide her agitation.

He reached out and took her hand with a strange shyness, and a self-
consciousness which was alien to his nature. The touch of her hand
thrilled him. Their eyes met. She dropped hers. Then he gathered him
self together. "Glad to see you? Of course, of course, I'm glad. You
stunned me, Jo. Why, do you know where you are? You're a thousand miles
from home. I can't get it through my head, not really. What brings you