many a question and took the place of words and the trials of the tongue.
It was pitifully mechanical. As the Young Doctor saw, it was the smile
of a captive in a strange uncomprehended world, more a dream than a
reality.

"Mrs. Mazarine, welcome," said the Mayor after an abashed pause. "We're
proud of this town, but we'll be prouder still, now you've come."

The girl-wife smiled again. At the same time it was as though she
glanced apprehensively out of the corner of her eye at the old man by her
side, as she said:

"Thank you. There seems to be plenty of room for us out here, so we
needn't get in each other's way.... I've never been on the prairie
before," she added.

The Young Doctor realized that her reply had meanings which would escape
the understanding of the Mayor, and her apprehensive glance had told him
of the gruesome jealousy of this old man at her side. The Mayor's polite
words had caused the long, clean-shaven upper lip of the old man with the
look of a debauched prophet, to lengthen surlily; and he noticed that a
wide, flat foot in a big knee-boot, inside trousers too short, tapped the
ground impatiently.

"We must be getting on to Tralee," said a voice that seemed to force its
way through bronchial obstructions. "Come, Mrs. Mazarine."

He laid a big, flat, tropical hand, which gave the impression of being
splayed, on the girl's shoulder. The gallant words of the Mayor--a
chivalrous mountain man--had set dark elements working. As the new