“Well,” said Winston with a curious little smile, “wheat as a topic is not quite new to me.  In fact, I know almost more about cereals than some folks would care to do.”

“In the shape of elevator warrants or Winnipeg market margins, presumably?”

Winston’s eyes twinkled, though he understood the implication.  “No,” he said.  “The wheat I handled was in 250-pound bags, and I occasionally grew somewhat tired of pitching them into a wagon, while my speculations usually consisted in committing it to the prairie soil, in the hope of reaping forty bushels to the acre and then endeavoring to be content with ten.  It is conceivable that operations on the Winnipeg market are less laborious as well as more profitable, but I have had no opportunity or trying them.”

Miss Barrington looked at him steadily, and Winston felt the blood surge to his forehead as he remembered having heard of a certain venture made by Courthorne which brought discredit on one or two men connected with the affairs of a grain elevator.  It was evident that Miss Barrington had also heard of it, and no man cares to stand convicted of falsification in the eyes of a very pretty girl.  Still, he roused himself with an effort.

“It is neither wise nor charitable to believe all one hears,” he said.

The girl smiled a little, but the man still winced inwardly under her clear brown eyes, that would, he fancied, have been very scornful had they been less indifferent.

“I do not remember mentioning having heard anything,” she said.  “Were you not a trifle premature, in face of the proverb?”

Winston’s face was a trifle grim, though he laughed.  “I’m afraid I was; but I am warned,” he said.  “Excuses are, after all, not worth much, and when I make my defense it will be before a more merciful judge.”

Maud Barrington’s curiosity was piqued.  Lance Courthorne, outcast and gambler, was at least a different stamp of man from the type she had been used to, and, being a woman, the romance that was interwoven with his somewhat iniquitous career was not without its attractions for her.

“I did not know that you included farming among your talents, and should have fancied you would have found it—­monotonous,” she said.

“I did,” and the provoking smile still flickered in Winston’s eyes.  “Are not all strictly virtuous occupations usually so?”

“It is probably a question of temperament.  I have, of course, heard sardonic speeches of the kind before, and felt inclined to wonder whether those who made them were qualified to form an opinion.”

Winston nodded, but there was a little ring in his voice.  “Perhaps I laid myself open to the thrust; but have you any right to assume I have never followed a commendable profession?”