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the hurt bewilderment in his eyes.
    â€œI can’t, Timmy. I know I’m a beast but I want to be alone.”
    â€œMy God—” said Tim, “you just going to sit here and moon over that guy? He’s in
Arizona,
for Pete’s sake. Honey, you can still dance, can’t you—even if you are”—he swallowed—“engaged.”
    â€œI know—” she had said gently. “But I don’t
want
to go. Forgive me. You’ll have fun anyway. You always do.”
    And he had, apparently, for she heard later that Tim and his special crowd had closed the Stork Club and then taken a ferry ride to breakfast in Staten Island.
    During the months before Dart came back East for the wedding she lived on his letters. They were brief and almost devoid of the endearments which had sprinkled her other love letters, but there emerged from them, nevertheless, a strength and assurance that made her happy. Once only he mentioned his mother. “I went to see Saba yesterday at San Carlos and told her about you. She was glad I had found a woman I want at last. She seems not very well. I tried to persuade her to go to the Agency doctor there, but she won’t, I’m afraid.” Upon reading that, Amanda had thought—Oh, poor thing, I’ll soon fix that when I meet her, I can persuade her. And yet today, as they had come through part of the reservation, Dart had checked her suggestion that they call on his mother with a brief “No. Not now.”
    Dart came East after Christmas and they were married on New Year's Day in Greenwich, Connecticut, at the Walker home.
    Mrs. Lawrence after some weeks of dismay had achieved resignation and put her considerable efficiency into giving Amanda the best possible wedding. Over Amanda’s vehement protests she sold the Chippendales and a gold mesh evening bag which dated from her own honeymoon in Paris. George Walker, badgered by Jean, finally permitted the use of his Greenwich house for the wedding. George was careful of his possessions and of his standing in the community and he found his sister-in-law’s choice of a husband unpleasantly bizarre. During one of the pre-wedding family conferences he was moved to express his opinion.
    â€œGood Lord, Amanda, if you’ve got to marry a Western miner who’s part Indian, why couldn’t you pick one of the Oklahoma Osage boys with an oil well, at least? This guy’ll never make a nickel. No ambition.”
    â€œI don’t mind being poor,” said Amanda smiling and politely sipping George’s bathtub-gin Martini. Nothing from the outside affected her during this time.... She dwelt in a golden secret room with her love.
    â€œYou don’t know a damn thing about it,” snapped George. “You’ve never been poor—yet.”
    Neither have you, thought Amanda, looking around the Walkers’ pine-paneled living room.
    â€œWe don’t want the papers to get hold of this Indian thing,” said George, pouring himself another Martini. “People’d think it very queer.”
    â€œThey did get hold of it once—” said Mrs. Lawrence, smiling. “Here’s a letter I just got from Aunt Amanda.”
    â€œYou told her about Dartland!” exclaimed George frowning.
    â€œOf course. I asked her to the wedding—with slightly venal motives, I admit. She ought to do something handsome for Andy, after we inflicted that name on the poor baby.”
    Jean had been upstairs reading Sally Lou a bedtime story; she entered the living room in time for her mother’s speech. “Aunt Amanda never has crashed through yet,” she said, pouring herself a cocktail. “I wouldn’t count on it. George, you look cross. What are you worrying about now? I said we’d take care of all the wedding arrangements. You won’t have to bother.” Jean was a brisk and handsome young matron, who ran her house without effort, played