Madeline went back to her room; and presently Florence came for her, and directly they were sitting at breakfast.  Madeline Hammond’s impression of her brother’s friend had to be reconstructed in the morning light.  She felt a wholesome, frank, sweet nature.  She liked the slow Southern drawl.  And she was puzzled to know whether Florence Kingsley was pretty or striking or unusual.  She had a youthful glow and flush, the clear tan of outdoors, a face that lacked the soft curves and lines of Eastern women, and her eyes were light gray, like crystal, steady, almost piercing, and her hair was a beautiful bright, waving mass.

Florence’s sister was the elder of the two, a stout woman with a strong face and quiet eyes.  It was a simple fare and service they gave to their guest; but they made no apologies for that.  Indeed, Madeline felt their simplicity to be restful.  She was sated with respect, sick of admiration, tired of adulation; and it was good to see that these Western women treated her as very likely they would have treated any other visitor.  They were sweet, kind; and what Madeline had at first thought was a lack of expression or vitality she soon discovered to be the natural reserve of women who did not live superficial lives.  Florence was breezy and frank, her sister quaint and not given much to speech.  Madeline thought she would like to have these women near her if she were ill or in trouble.  And she reproached herself for a fastidiousness, a hypercritical sense of refinement that could not help distinguishing what these women lacked.

“Can you ride?” Florence was asking.  “That’s what a Westerner always asks any one from the East.  Can you ride like a man—­ astride, I mean?  Oh, that’s fine.  You look strong enough to hold a horse.  We have some fine horses out here.  I reckon when Al comes we’ll go out to Bill Stillwell’s ranch.  We’ll have to go, whether we want to or not, for when Bill learns you are here he’ll just pack us all off.  You’ll love old Bill.  His ranch is run down, but the range and the rides up in the mountains—­they are beautiful.  We’ll hunt and climb, and most of all we’ll ride.  I love a horse—­I love the wind in my face, and a wide stretch with the mountains beckoning.  You must have the best horse on the ranges.  And that means a scrap between Al and Bill and all the cowboys.  We don’t all agree about horses, except in case of Gene Stewart’s iron-gray.”

“Does Mr. Stewart own the best horse in the country?” asked Madeline.  Again she had an inexplicable thrill as she remembered the wild flight of Stewart’s big dark steed and rider.

“Yes, and that’s all he does own,” replied Florence.  “Gene can’t keep even a quirt.  But he sure loves that horse and calls him—­”

At this juncture a sharp knock on the parlor door interrupted the conversation.  Florence’s sister went to open it.  She returned presently and said: 

“It’s Gene.  He’s been dawdlin’ out there on the front porch, and he knocked to let us know Miss Hammond’s brother is comin’.”