"My Dear Bucks," he began. "Your letter with programme for the Pittsburg
party is received. Why am I to be nailed to the cross with part of the
entertaining? There's no hunting now. The hair is falling off grizzlies
and Goff wouldn't take his dogs out at this season for the President of
the United States. What would you think of detailing Paddy McGraw to
give the young men a fast ride--they have heard of him. I talked
yesterday with one of them. He wanted to see a train robber and I
introduced him to Conductor O'Brien, but he never saw the joke, and you
know how depressing explanations are. Don't, my dear Bucks, put me on a
private car with these people for four weeks--my brother died of
paresis----"
"Oh!" He turned. The stenographer's cheeks were burning; she was
astonishingly pretty. "I'm going too fast, I'm afraid," said Glover.
"I do not think I had better attempt to continue," she answered, rising.
Her eyes fairly burned the brown mountain engineer.
"As you like," he replied, rising too, "It was hardly fair to ask you to
work to-day. By the way, Mr. Bucks forgot to give me your name."
"Is it necessary that you should have my name?"
"Not in the least," returned Glover with insistent consideration, "any
name at all will do, so I shall know what to call you."
For an instant she seemed unable to catch her breath, and he was about to
explain that the rarefied air often affected newcomers in that way when
she answered with some intensity, "I am Miss Brock. I never have
occasion to use any other name."
Whatever result she looked for from her spirited words, his manner lost
none of its urbanity. "Indeed? That's the name of our Pittsburg
magnate. You ought to be sure of a position under him--you might turn
out to be a relation," he laughed, softly.
"Quite possibly."
"Do not return this afternoon," he continued as she backed away from him.
"This mountain air is exhausting at first----"
"Your letters?" she queried with an expression that approached pleasant
irony.
"They may wait."
She courtesied quaintly. He had never seen such a woman in his life, and
as his eyes fixed on her down the dim hall he was overpowered by the
grace of her vanishing figure.
Sitting at his table he was still thinking of her when Solomon, the
messenger, came in with a telegram. The boy sat down opposite the
engineer, while the latter read the message.
"That Miss Brock is fine, isn't she?"
Glover scowled. "I took a despatch over to the car yesterday and she
gave me a dollar," continued Solomon.
"What car?"
"Her car. She's in that Pittsburg party."
"The young lady that sat here a moment ago?"