They had the room; and likewise they had all the trappings of snobbery—­Montague took that fact in at a glance.  There were knee-breeches and scarlet facings and gold braid—­marble balconies and fireplaces and fountains—­French masters and real Flemish tapestry.  The staircase of their palace was a winding one, and there was a white velvet carpet which had been specially woven for it, and had to be changed frequently; at the top of it was a white cashmere rug which had a pedigree of six centuries—­and so on.

And then came the family:  this tall, raw-boned, gigantic man, with weather-tanned face and straggling grey moustache—­this was Jack Evans; and Mrs. Evans, short and pudgy, but with a kindly face, and not too many diamonds; and the Misses Evans,—­stately and slender and perfectly arrayed.  “Why, they’re all right!” was the thought that came to Montague.

They were all right until they opened their mouths.  When they spoke, you discovered that Evans was a miner, and that his wife had been cook on a ranch; also that Anne and Mary had harsh voices, and that they never by any chance said or did anything natural.

They were escorted into the stately dining-room—­Henri II., with a historic mantel taken from the palace of Fontainebleau, and four great allegorical paintings of Morning, Evening, Noon, and Midnight upon the walls.  There were no other guests—­the table, set for six, seemed like a toy in the vast apartment.  And in a sudden fash—­with a start of almost terror—­Montague realized what it must mean not to be in Society.  To have all this splendour, and nobody to share it!  To have Henri II. dining-rooms and Louis XVI. parlours and Louis XIV. libraries—­and see them all empty!  To have no one to drive with or talk with, no one to visit or play cards with—­to go to the theatre and the opera and have no ono to speak to!  Worse than that, to be stared at and smiled at!  To live in this huge palace, and know that all the horde of servants, underneath their cringing deference, were sneering at you!  To face that—­to live in the presence of it day after day!  And then, outside of your home, the ever widening circles of ridicule and contempt—­Society, with all its hangers-on and parasites, its imitators and admirers!

And some one had defied all that—­some one had taken up the sword and gone forth to beat down that opposition!  Montague looked at this little family of four, and wondered which of them was the driving force in this most desperate emprise!

He arrived at it by a process of elimination.  It could not be Evans himself.  One saw that the old man was quite hopeless socially; nothing could change his big hairy hands or his lean scrawny neck, or his irresistible impulse to slide down in his chair and cross his long legs in front of him.  The face and the talk of Jack Evans brought irresistibly to mind the mountain trail and the prospector’s pack-mule, the smoke of camp-fires and the odour of bacon and beans.  Seventeen long years the man had tramped in deserts and mountain wildernesses, and Nature had graven her impress deep into his body and soul.