Simon was visibly uneasy while they waited.  “You think this any good?” he suggested.

“No,” said Ambrose bitterly.  “I know well enough what I’ll get.  But I’ve got to go through with it before taking the next step.”

“John Gaviller live well,” said Simon significantly, but without bitterness.

Colina came in with her queenliest air.  She had changed her riding habit for clinging white draperies that made her look like a lovely, arrogant saint.  Ambrose, raising his sullen eyes to her, experienced a new shock of desire that put the idea of flour out of his head.

To old Simon, Colina inclined her head as gracefully and indifferently as a swan.  The grim patriarch became humble under the spell of her white beauty.  He fingered his hat nervously.  To Ambrose Colina said with subtle scorn meant for his ear alone: 

“What is it?”

Ambrose screwed down the clamps of self-control.  “I asked for you,” he said stolidly, “because I did not know if your father was well enough to talk business.  May I see him for five minutes?”

“No,” she said, without condescending to explain.

“Then I will tell you,” said Ambrose.  “It is about the Indians across the river.  I must have some flour for them.”

“Must?” she repeated, raising her eyebrows.

“They are suffering from hunger,” he said firmly.

“You will have to see Mr. Strange,” she said coolly.  “He is in charge of the business.”

“This is a question for the head to decide,” warned Ambrose.

“You will have to see Mr. Strange,” she repeated, unmoved.

Ambrose’s eyes flamed up.  For a moment the two pairs contended—­Ambrose’s passionate, Colina’s steely.  The man was struggling with the atavic impulse to thrash the maddening, arrogant woman creature into a humbler frame of mind.

It may be, too, that deep in her heart of hearts Colina desired something of the kind.  Perhaps she could not master her worser self alone.  Anyhow, it was impossible there in her own stronghold, with Simon looking on.  They were too civilized or not civilized enough.

Ambrose merely bowed to her and led the way out of the room and out of the house.

“Thank God, that is over!” he murmured outside.

Crossing the square, they entered the store.  It was the first time Ambrose had been inside that famous show-place of the north, but he had no eyes for it now.  Gordon Strange welcomed them with smiling heartiness.

“Come in!  Come in!” he cried, leading the way into the rear office.  “Sit down!  Have a cigar!”

The scowling Ambrose stared as if he thought the man demented.  He waved the cigar away and came directly to the point.

“I want to find out what you’re willing to do about the Kakisa Indians.”

“Sure!” cried Strange with apparently the best will in the world.  “Sit down.  What do you propose?”