He laughed.  The tan in his cheeks burned a deeper red.

“We are wasting time,” he warned her.  “In Bill’s place I heard you say you were going to leave on the Tete Jaune train.  I am going to take you to a real dinner.  And now—­I should let those good people know your name.”

A moment—­unflinching and steady—­she looked into his face.

“It is Joanne, the name you have made famous as the dreadfulest woman in fiction.  Joanne Gray.”

“I am sorry,” he said, and bowed low.  “Come.  If I am not mistaken I smell new-baked bread.”

As they moved on he suddenly touched her arm.  She felt for a moment the firm clasp of his fingers.  There was a new light in his eyes, a glow of enthusiasm.

“I have it!” he cried.  “You have brought it to me—­the idea.  I have been wanting a name for her—­the woman in my new book.  She is to be a tremendous surprise.  I haven’t found a name, until now—­one that fits.  I shall call her Ladygray!”

He felt the girl flinch.  He was surprised at the sudden startled look that shot into her eyes, the swift ebbing of the colour from her cheeks.  He drew away his hand at the strange change in her.  He noticed how quickly she was breathing—­that the fingers of her white hands were clasped tensely.

“You object,” he said.

“Not enough to keep you from using it,” she replied in a low voice.  “I owe you a great deal.”  He noted, too, how quickly she had recovered herself.  Her head was a little higher.  She looked toward the tents.  “You were not mistaken,” she added.  “I smell new-made bread!”

“And I shall emphasize the first half of it—­Ladygray,” said John Aldous, as if speaking to himself.  “That diminutizes it, you might say—­gives it the touch of sentiment I want.  You can imagine a lover saying ’Dear little Ladygray, are you warm and comfy?’ He wouldn’t say Ladygray as if she wore a coronet, would he?”

“Smell-o’-bread—­fresh bread!” sniffed Joanne Gray, as if she had not heard him.  “It’s making me hungry.  Will you please hurry me to it, John Aldous?”

They were approaching the first of the three tent-houses, over which was a crudely painted sign which read “Otto Brothers, Guides and Outfitters.”  It was a large, square tent, with weather-faded red and blue stripes, and from it came the cheerful sound of a woman’s laughter.  Half a dozen trampish-looking Airedale terriers roused themselves languidly as they drew nearer.  One of them stood up and snarled.

“They won’t hurt you,” assured Aldous.  “They belong to Jack Bruce and Clossen Otto—­the finest bunch of grizzly dogs in the Rockies.”  Another moment, and a woman had appeared in the door.  “And that is Mrs. Jack Otto,” he added under his breath.  “If all women were like her I wouldn’t have written the things you have read!”

He might have added that she was Scotch.  But this was not necessary.  The laughter was still in her good-humoured face.  Aldous looked at his companion, and he found her smiling back.  The eyes of the two women had already met.