“That is a good deal, sir,” Dane said quietly.

“It is.  Still, a gentleman, in the restricted sense, is somewhat of an anachronism on the prairie, and it is too late to begin again.  In the usual course of nature I must lay down my charge presently, and that is why I feel the want of a more capable successor, whom they would follow because of his connection with mine and me.”

Dane looked thoughtful.  “If I am not taking a liberty—­you still consider the one apparently born to fill the place quite unsuitable?”

“Yes,” said Barrington quietly.  “I fear there is not a redeeming feature in Courthorne’s character.”

Neither said anything further, until there was a tapping at the door, and, though this was a most unusual spectacle on the prairie, a trim English maid in white-banded dress stood in the opening.

“Mr. Courthorne, Miss Barrington,” she said.

Now Silverdale had adopted one Western custom in that no chance guest was ever kept waiting, and the music ceased suddenly, while the stillness was very suggestive, when a man appeared in the doorway.  He wore one of the Scandinavian leather jackets which are not uncommon in that country, and when his eyes had become accustomed to the light, moved forward with a quiet deliberation that was characterized neither by graceful ease nor the restraint of embarrassment.  His face was almost the color of a Blackfeet’s, his eyes steady and gray, but those of the men who watched him were turned the next moment upon the Colonel’s sister, who rose to receive him, slight, silver-haired, and faded, but still stamped with a simple dignity that her ancient silks and laces curiously enhanced.  Then there was a silence that could be felt, for all realized that a good deal depended on the stranger’s first words and the fashion of his reception by Miss Barrington and the Colonel.

Winston, as it happened, felt this too, and something more.  It was eight years since he had stood before an English lady, and he surmised that there could not be many to compare with this one, while after his grim lonely life an intangible something that seemed to emanate from her gracious serenity compelled his homage.  Then as she smiled at him and held out her hand, he was for a moment sensible of an almost overwhelming confusion.  It passed as suddenly, for this was a man of quick perceptions, and remembering that Courthorne had now and then displayed some of the grace of by-gone days he yielded to a curious impulse, and, stooping, kissed the little withered fingers.

“I have,” he said, “to thank you for a welcome that does not match my poor deserts, madam.”

Then Dane, standing beside his leader, saw the grimness grow a trifle less marked in his eyes.  “It is in the blood,” he said half-aloud, but Dane heard and afterwards remembered it.

In the meanwhile Miss Barrington had turned from the stranger to her niece.  “It is a very long time since you have seen Lance, Maud, and, though I knew his mother well, I am less fortunate, because this is our first meeting,” she said.  “I wonder if you still remember my niece?”