Any director she had ever obeyed would have sent for his assistant director and would have used language which a lady must not listen to.

Behind the store and the post-office and the blacksmith shop, on the brow of the low hill around whose point the train had disappeared, were houses with bay windows and porches absolutely out of keeping with the West.

So far as Lorraine could see, there was not a log cabin in the whole place.
The hitch rails were empty, and there was not a cowboy in sight.

Before the post-office a terribly grimy touring car stood with its running-boards loaded with canvas-covered suitcases.

Three goggled, sunburned women in ugly khaki suits were disconsolately drinking soda water from bottles without straws, and a goggled, red-faced, angry-looking man was jerking impatiently at the hood of the machine.
Lorraine and her suitcase apparently excited no interest whatever in Echo, Idaho.
The station agent was carrying two boxes of oranges and a crate of California cabbages in out of the sun, and a limp individual in blue gingham shirt and dirty overalls had shouldered the mail sack and was making his way across the dusty, rut-scored street to the post-office.
Two questions and two brief answers convinced her that the station agent did not know Britton Hunter,--which was strange, unless this happened to be a very new agent.