The music began, and the girl passed from amidst her group of admirers upon the arm of a tall, fair man, and was soon lost in the midst of the throng of dancers.

“Who is that she is dancing with now?” asked Mrs. Abbot, presently.  “I didn’t see her go off; I was watching Mr. Lablache standing alone and disconsolate over there against the door.  He looks as if some one had done him some terrible injury.  See how he is glaring at the dancers.”

“Jacky is dancing with ‘Lord’ Bill.  Yes, you are right, Lablache does not look very amiable.  I think this would be a good opportunity to suggest a little gamble in the smoking-room.”

“Nothing of the sort,” snapped Mrs. Abbot, with the assurance of an old friend.  “I haven’t half finished talking to you yet.  It is a most extraordinary thing that all you people of the prairie love to call each other by nicknames.  Why should the Hon. William Bunning-Ford be dubbed ‘Lord’ Bill, and why should that sweet niece of yours, who is the possessor of such a charming name as Joaquina, be hailed by every man within one hundred miles of Calford as ‘Jacky’?  I think it is both absurd and—­vulgar.”

“Possibly you are right, my dear lady.  But you can never alter the ways of the prairie.  You might just as well try to stem the stream of our Foss River in early spring as try to make the prairie man call people by their legitimate names.  For instance, do you ever hear me spoken of by any other name than ‘Poker’ John?”

Mrs. Abbot looked up sharply.  A malicious twinkle was in her eyes.

“There is reason in your sobriquet, John.  A man who spends his substance and time in playing that fascinating but degrading game called ’Draw Poker’ deserves no better title.”

John Allandale made a “clucking” sound with his tongue.  It was his way of expressing irritation.  Then he stood erect, and glanced round the room in search of some one.  He was a tall, well-built man and carried his fifty odd years fairly well, in spite of his gray hair and the bald patch at the crown of his head.  Thirty years of a rancher’s life had in no way lessened the easy carriage and distinguished bearing acquired during his upbringing.  John Allandale’s face and figure were redolent of the free life of the prairie.  And although, possibly, his fifty-five years might have lain more easily upon him he was a man of commanding appearance and one not to be passed unnoticed.

Mrs. Abbot was the wife of the doctor of the Foss River Settlement and had known John Allandale from the first day he had taken up his abode on the land which afterwards became known as the Foss River Ranch until now, when he was acknowledged to be a power in the stock-raising world.  She was a woman of sound, practical, common sense; he was a man of action rather than a thinker; she was a woman whose moral guide was an invincible sense of duty; he was a man whose sense of responsibility and duty was entirely governed by an unreliable inclination.  Moreover, he was obstinate without being possessed of great strength of will.  They were characters utterly opposed to one another, and yet they were the greatest of friends.