The cowpuncher’s secret burst from him.  “I done got married, Miss Beatrice.”

“You—­what?”

“I up and got married day before yesterday,” he beamed.

“And who’s the happy girl?”

“Kitty Mason.  We jes’ walked to the church round the corner.  Clay he stood up with us and give the bride away.  It’s me ‘n’ her for Arizona poco pronto.”

Beatrice felt a queer joyous lift inside her as of some weight that had gone.  In a single breath Johnnie had blown away the mists of misunderstanding that for weeks had clouded her vision.  Her heart went out to Clay with a rush of warm emotion.  The friend she had distrusted was all she had ever believed him.  He was more—­a man too stanch to desert under pressure any one who had even a slight claim on him.

“I want to meet her.  Will you bring her to see me this afternoon, Johnnie?” she asked.

His face was one glad grin.  “I sure will.  Y’betcha, by jollies.”

He did.

To Beatrice, busy writing a letter, came Jenkins some hours later.

“A young—­person—­to see you, Miss Whitford.”

He said it with a manner so apologetic that it stressed his opinion of the social status of the visitor.

“What kind of a person?”

“A young woman, Miss.  From the country, I tyke it.”

“She didn’t give you a card?”

“No, Miss.  She came with the person Mr. Whitford took on to ’elp with the work houtside.”

“Oh!  Show them both up.  And have tea sent in, Jenkins.”

Kitty’s shy eyes lifted apprehensively to those of this slim young patrician so beautifully and simply gowned.  Instantly her fears fled.  Beatrice moved swiftly to her with both hands outstretched.

“I’m so glad to meet you.”

She kissed the young wife with unaccustomed tenderness.  For the Colorado girl had about her a certain modesty that was disarming, an appeal of helplessness Beatrice could not resist.

Kitty, in the arms of her hostess, wept a few tears.  She had been under a strain in anticipating the ordeal of meeting Johnnie’s mistress, and she had discovered her to be a very sweet, warm-hearted girl.

As for Johnnie, he had a miserably happy half-hour.  He had brought his hat in with him and he did not know how to dispose of it.  What he did do was to keep it revolving in his hands.  This had to be abandoned when Miss Whitford handed him a quite unnecessary cup of tea and a superfluous plate of toasted English muffins.  He wished his hands had not been so big and red and freckled.  Also he had an uncomfortable suspicion that his tow hair was tousled and uncombed in spite of his attempts at home to plaster it down.

He declined sugar and cream because for some reason it seemed easier to say “No’m” than “Yes,” though he always took both with tea.  And he disgraced himself by scalding his tongue and failing to suppress the pain.  Finally the plate, with his muffin, carefully balanced on his knee, from some devilish caprice plunged over the precipice to the carpet and the bit of china broke.