Angela transferred her scrutiny to him; Howard laughed at her good-humouredly, laid his hand gently on her shrunken shoulder and side by side they went out.

Helen went singing into her bath, her weary body rested by the thought of coolness and cleanliness and a change of clothing.  Little enough did she have in the way of clothing, especially for an evening when she was to meet still other strangers.  But certain feminine trinkets had come with her journeying across the desert, and a freshly laundered wash dress and a bit of bright ribbon work wonders.  When she heard voices in the patio, that of Alan Howard and of another man, this a sonorous bass, she was ready.  She went to her father’s door; Longstreet was in the final stages of his own toilet-making, his face red and shiny from his towelling, his sparse hair on end, his whole being in that condition of bewildering untidiness which comes just before the ultimate desired orderliness quite as the thick darkness before the dawn.  In this case the rose fingers of Aurora were Helen’s own, patting, pulling and readjusting.  Within three minutes she slipped her hand through the arm of a quiet scholarly looking gentleman and together they paced sedately into the patio.

Howard jumped up from a bench and dragged forward his friend John Carr, introducing him to his new friends.  And in employing the word friend and repeating it, he spoke it as though he meant it.  Here was a characteristic of the man; he was ready from dawn until dark to put out his big square hand to the world and bring the world home to his home for supper and bed and all that both connote.

But Helen’s interest, at least for the flitting moment, was less for him than for his friend; Howard she had known since dawn, hence hers had been ample time to assign him his proper place in her human catalogue.  Now she turned her level eyes upon the new man.  Immediately she knew that if Alan Howard were an interesting type, then no less so, though in his own way, was John Carr.  A bigger man, though not so tall; an older man by something like half a dozen years, but still young in the eyes and about the clean-shaven mouth; a man with clear, unwinking bluish-grey eyes and a fine head carried erect upon a massive brown throat.  Carr was dressed well in a loose serge suit; he wore high-topped tan boots; his soft shirt was of good silk; his personality exuded both means and importance.  He glanced at Longstreet and looked twice or three times as long at Longstreet’s daughter.  Helen was quite used to that, and it was for no particular reason that she felt her colour heighten a little.  She slipped her hand through her father’s arm again and they went in to supper.  Howard, having indicated the way, clapped Carr upon the thick shoulders and the two friends brought up the rear.

Helen was still wondering where was the second guest; Angela had distinctly mentioned Juan Carr and another she termed El Joven.  Yet as they passed from the patio into the big cool dining-room with its white cloth and plain service and stiff chairs, she saw no one here.  Nor did she find any answer in the number of places set, but rather a confused wonder; the table was the length of the long room, and, at least in so far as number of plates went, suggested a banquet.