“I suppose you mean that you will be deeper in debt.”

He smiled in his own peculiarly lazy fashion as he held a lighted match to his cigarette.

“Just so.  I shall owe Lablache more,” he said, between spasmodic draws at his tobacco.

“Lablache has wonderful luck at cards.”

“Yes,” shortly.

Jacky returned to the table and sat down.  She turned the pages of a stock book idly.  She was thinking and the expression of her dark, determined little face indicated the unpleasant nature of her thoughts.  Presently she looked up and encountered the steady gaze of her companion.  They were great friends—­these two.  In that glance each read in the other’s mind something of a mutual thought.  Jacky, with womanly readiness, put part of it into words.

“No one ever seems to win against him, Bill.  Guess he makes a steady income out of poker.”

The man nodded and gulped down a deep inhalation from his cigarette.

“Wonderful luck,” the girl went on.

“Some people call it ‘luck,’” put in Bill, quietly, but with a curious purse of the lips.

“What do you call it?” sharply.

Bunning-Ford refused to commit himself.  He contented himself with blowing the ash from his cigarette and crossing over to the window, where he stood looking out.  He had come there that afternoon with a half-formed intention of telling this girl something which every girl must hope to hear sooner or later in her life.  He had come there with the intention of ending, one way or the other, a friendship—­camaraderie—­whatever you please to call it, by telling this hardy girl of the prairie the old, old story over again.  He loved this woman with an intensity that very few would have credited him with.  Who could associate lazy, good-natured, careless “Lord” Bill with serious love?  Certainly not his friends.  And yet such was the case, and for that reason had he come.  The affairs of Pat Nabob were but a subterfuge.  And now he found it impossible to pronounce the words he had so carefully thought out.  Jacky was not the woman to approach easily with sentiment, she was so “deucedly practical.”  So Bill said to himself.  It was useless to speculate upon her feelings.  This girl never allowed anything approaching sentiment to appear upon the surface.  She knew better than to do so.  She had the grave responsibility of her uncle’s ranch upon her shoulders, therefore all men must be kept at arm’s length.  She was in every sense a woman, passionate, loyal, loving.  But in addition nature had endowed her with a spirit which rose superior to feminine attributes and feelings.  The blood in her veins—­her life on the prairie—­her tender care and solicitude for her uncle, of whose failings and weaknesses she was painfully aware, had caused her to put from her all thoughts of love and marriage.  Her life must be devoted to him, and while he lived she was determined that no thought of self should interfere with her self-imposed duty.