Connie stared, fascinated, into the thin, brown, sneering face.

“How do you do?” he said mockingly.  “Isn’t it charming weather?”

Connie still looked directly into his eyes.  Somehow she felt that back of the sneer, back of the resentment, there lay a little hurt that she should have spoken so, classed him with fine horses and cattle, him and his kind.  Connie would make amends, a daughter of the parsonage might not do ungracious things like that.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, sweetly, unsmilingly, “I did not mean to be rude.  But the riders did fascinate me.  I am spellbound.  I only wished to see if the charm would hold.  I have not been in the West before this.”  She held out her hand, slender, white, appealing.

[Illustration:  “I beg your pardon,” she said, sweetly, unsmilingly, “I did not mean to be rude.”]

The man looked at her curiously in turn, then he jerked off his sombrero and took her hand in his.  There was the contact, soft white skin of the city, hard brown hand of the mountain plains, and human blood is swift to leap in response to an unwonted touch.

Connie drew her hand away quickly, but his eyes still held hers.

“Let me beg your pardon instead,” he said.  “Of course you did not mean it the way it sounded.  None of my business, anyhow.”

“Come on, Prince,” called a man from the road, curbing his impatient horse.  But “Prince” waved him away without turning.

This was a wonderful girl.

“I—­I write stories,” Connie explained hurriedly, to get away from that searching clasp of glances.  “I wanted some literary material, and I seemed so far away from everything.  I thought I needed the personal touch, you know.”

“Anything I can tell you?” he offered feverishly.  “I know all about range and ranch life.  I can tell you anything you want to know.”

“Really?  And will you do it?  You know writers have just got to get material.  It is absolutely necessary.  And I am running very short of ideas, I have been loafing.”

He waited patiently.  He was more than willing to tell her everything he knew, or could make up to please her, but he had not the slightest idea what she wanted.  Whatever it was, he certainly intended to make the effort of his life to give her.

“I am Constance Starr,” said Connie, still more abashed by the unfaltering presence of this curious creature, who, she fully realized at last, was quite human enough for any literary purpose.  “And this is my brother-in-law, Mr. Duke, and my sister, Mrs. Duke.”

“My name is Prince Ingram.”