And just here is where the mistake occurred.  The buzz rose loudly and more definitely, coupled now with the name of the dancer, and Mrs. Eppingwell heard.  She, too, thought of Flossie lifting her moccasined feet through the endless hours, and Floyd Vanderlip was invited up the hillside to tea, and invited often.  This quite took his breath away, and he became drunken with appreciation of himself.  Never was man so maltreated.  His soul had become a thing for which three women struggled, while a fourth was on the way to claim it.  And three such women!

But Mrs. Eppingwell and the mistake she made.  She spoke of the affair, tentatively, to Sitka Charley, who had sold dogs to the Greek girl.  But no names were mentioned.  The nearest approach to it was when Mrs. Eppingwell said, “This—­er—­horrid woman,” and Sitka Charley, with the model-woman strong in his thoughts, had echoed, “—­er—­horrid woman.”  And he agreed with her, that it was a wicked thing for a woman to come between a man and the girl he was to marry.  “A mere girl, Charley,” she said, “I am sure she is.  And she is coming into a strange country without a friend when she gets here.  We must do something.”  Sitka Charley promised his help, and went away thinking what a wicked woman this Loraine Lisznayi must be, also what noble women Mrs. Eppingwell and Freda were to interest themselves in the welfare of the unknown Flossie.

Now Mrs. Eppingwell was open as the day.  To Sitka Charley, who took her once past the Hills of Silence, belongs the glory of having memorialized her clear-searching eyes, her clear-ringing voice, and her utter downright frankness.  Her lips had a way of stiffening to command, and she was used to coming straight to the point.  Having taken Floyd Vanderlip’s measurement, she did not dare this with him; but she was not afraid to go down into the town to Freda.  And down she went, in the bright light of day, to the house of the dancer.  She was above silly tongues, as was her husband, the captain.  She wished to see this woman and to speak with her, nor was she aware of any reason why she should not.  So she stood in the snow at the Greek girl’s door, with the frost at sixty below, and parleyed with the waiting-maid for a full five minutes.  She had also the pleasure of being turned away from that door, and of going back up the hill, wroth at heart for the indignity which had been put upon her.  “Who was this woman that she should refuse to see her?” she asked herself.  One would think it the other way around, and she herself but a dancing girl denied at the door of the wife of a captain.  As it was, she knew, had Freda come up the hill to her,—­no matter what the errand,—­she would have made her welcome at her fire, and they would have sat there as two women, and talked, merely as two women.  She had overstepped convention and lowered herself, but she had thought it different with the women down in the town.  And she was ashamed that she had laid herself open to such dishonor, and her thoughts of Freda were unkind.