“I’ll tell you a secret,” he murmured; “this fellow is a great chief in his own country, but he doesn’t want anyone to know it.  He’s coming here to learn a little of our ways, and he’s particularly interested in English women, so be nice to him.”

“I thought you said he was a French Canadian,” said Hilary.

“That’s what he wants to appear,” said Culver.  “And, anyhow, he had a Yankee mother.  I know that for a fact.  He’s quite civilised, you know.  You needn’t be afraid of him.”

“Afraid!” exclaimed Hilary.

Turning, she found the new-comer looking at her with brown eyes that were soft under the bushy brows.

“He can’t be a red man,” she said to herself.  “He hasn’t got the cheek-bones.”

Leaving Dick to amuse himself, she smiled upon her other guest with winning graciousness and forthwith began the dainty task of initiating him into the ways of English women.

She was relieved to find that, notwithstanding his hairy appearance, he was, as Dick had assured her, quite civilised.  As the meal proceeded she suddenly conceived an interest in Canada and the States, which had never before possessed her.  She questioned him with growing eagerness, and he replied with a smile and always that half-reverent, half-shy courtliness that had first attracted her.  Undoubtedly he was a pleasant companion.  He clothed the information for which she asked in careful and picturesque language.  He was ready at any moment to render any service, however slight, but his attentions were so unobtrusive that Hilary could not but accept them with pleasure.  She maintained her pretty graciousness throughout dinner, anxious to set him at his ease.

“Englishmen are not half so nice,” she said to herself, as she rose from the table.  And she thought of the stubborn Viscount Merrivale as she said it.

There was a friendly regret at her departure written in the man’s eyes as he opened the door for her, and with a sudden girlish impulse she paused.

“Why don’t you come and smoke your cigar in the punt?” she said.

He glanced irresolutely over his shoulder at the other two men who were discussing some political problem with much absorption.

With a curious desire to have her way with him, the girl waited with a little laugh.

“Come!” she said softly.  “You can’t be interested in British politics.”

He looked at her with his friendly, silent smile, and followed her out.

* * * * *

“Isn’t it heavenly?” breathed Hilary, as she lay back on the velvet cushions and watched the man’s strong figure bend to the punt-pole.

“I think it is Heaven, Miss St. Orme,” he answered in a hushed voice.

The sun had scarcely set in a cloudless shimmer of rose, and, sailing up from the east, a full moon cast a rippling, silvery pathway upon the mysterious water.

The girl drew a long sigh of satisfaction, then laughed a little.