1 ( )RT SMITH AND THE SOCIAL QUEEN 91 



of tea, a story is made of that. If I turn my head, 

 another story; and everything is carried to my hus- 

 band to make mischief. It is nothing but lies, lies, 

 lies, all day, all night, all year. Women don't do that 

 way in your country, do they?" 



"No," I replied emphatically. "If any woman in 

 my country were to tell a lie to make another woman 

 unhappy, she would be thought very, very wicked." 



"I am sure of it," she said. "I wish I could go to 

 your country and be at rest." She turned to her work 

 and began talking to the others in Chipewyan. 



Now another woman entered. She was dressed in 

 semi-white style, and looked, not on the ground, as 

 does an Indian woman, on seeing a strange man, but 

 straight at me. 



"Bon jour, madame," I said. 



"I speak Ingliss," she replied with emphasis. 



"Indeed! And what is your name?" 



"I am Madame X ." 



And now I knew I was in the presence of the stuck- 

 up social queen. 



After some conversation she said: "I have some 

 things at home you like to see." 



"Where is your lodge?" I asked. 



"Lodge," she replied indignantly; "I have no lodge. 

 I know ze Indian way. I know ze half-breed way. I 

 know ze white man's way. I go ze white man's way. 

 I live in a house — and my door is painted blue." 



I went to her house, a 10 by 12 log cabin; but the 

 door certainly was painted blue, a gorgeous sky blue, 

 the only touch of paint in sight. Inside was all one 



