“Don’t feel bad about the wine,” I said.
“He wanted you to drink his wine,” Madame Fontan said. “You can come back next year?”
“No. Maybe the year after.”
“You see?” Fontan said to her.
“Good-by,” I said. “Don’t think about the wine. Drink some for us when we’re gone.” Fontan shook his head. He did not smile. He knew when he was ruined.
“That son of a bitch,” Fontan said to himself.
“Last night he had three bottles,” Madame Fontan said to comfort him. He shook his head.
“Good-by,” he said.
Madame Fontan had tears in her eyes.
“Good-by,” she said. She felt badly for Fontan.
“Good-by,” we said. We all felt very badly. They stood in the doorway and we got in, and I started the motor. We waved. They stood together sadly on the porch. Fontan looked very old, and Madame Fontan looked sad. She waved to us and Fontan went in the house. We turned up the road.
“They felt so badly. Fontan felt terribly.”
“We ought to have gone last night.”
“Yes, we ought to have.”
We were through the town and out on the smooth road beyond, with the stubble of grain-fields on each side and the mountains off to the right. It looked like Spain, but it was Wyoming.
“I hope they have a lot of good luck.”
“They won’t,” I said, “and Schmidt won’t be President either.”
The cement road stopped. The road was gravelled now and we left the plain and started up between two foot-hills; the road in a curve and commencing to climb. The soil of the hills was red, the sage grew in gray clumps, and as the road rose we could see across the hills and away across the plain of the valley to the mountains. They were farther away now and they looked more like Spain than ever. The road curved
