“There’s Poppa now,” she said at last.  “Say, Poppa, you two sit in the back, will you?  Sheila and I are having a fine time.  But, Poppa, you old tin-horn, what did you mean by saying in your wire that she was a husky girl?  Why, she’s got the build of a sagebrush mosquito!  Look-a-here, Sheila.”  Babe by a miracle got her plump hand in and out of a pocket and handed a telegram to her new friend.  “Read that and learn to know Poppa!”

Sylvester laughed rather sheepishly as Sheila read: 

Am bringing home artist’s A1 picture for The Aura and artist’s A1 daughter.  Husky girl.  Will help Momma.

“Well,” said Sylvester apologetically, “she’s one of the wiry kind, aren’t you, Miss Sheila?”

Sheila was struggling with an attack of hysterical mirth.  She nodded and put her muff before her mouth to hide an uncontrollable quivering of her lips.

“Momma” had not spoken.  Her face was all one even tone of red, her nostrils opened and shut, her lips were tight.  Sylvester, however, was in a genial humor.  He leaned forward with his arms folded along the back of the front seat and pointed out the beauties of Millings.  He showed Sheila the Garage, the Post-Office, and the Trading Company, and suddenly pressing her shoulder with his hand, he cracked out sharply: 

“There’s The Aura, girl!”

His eyes were again those of the artist and the visionary.  They glowed.

Sheila turned her head.  They were passing the double door of the saloon and went slowly along the front of the hotel.

It stood on that corner where the main business street intersects with the Best Residence Street.  Its main entrance opened into the flattened corner of the building where the roof rose to a fantastic facade.  For the rest, the hotel was of yellowish-brick, half-surrounded by a wooden porch where at milder seasons of the year in deep wicker chairs men and women were always rocking with the air of people engaged in serious and not unimportant work.  At such friendlier seasons, too, by the curb was always a weary-looking Ford car from which grotesquely arrayed “travelers” from near-by towns and cities were descending covered with alkali dust—­faces, chiffon veils, spotted silk dresses, high white kid boots, dangling purses and all, their men dust-powdered to a wrinkled sameness of aspect.  At this time of the year the porch was deserted, and the only car in sight was Hudson’s own, which wriggled and slipped its way courageously along the rutted, dirty snow.

Around the corner next to the hotel stood Hudson’s home.  It was a large house of tortured architecture, cupolas and twisted supports and strange, overlapping scallops of wood, painted wavy green, pinkish red and yellow.  Its windows were of every size and shape and appeared in unreasonable, impossible places—­opening enormous mouths on tiny balconies with twisted posts and scalloped railings, like embroidery patterns, one on top of the other up to a final absurdity of a bird cage which found room for itself between two cupolas under the roof.