Jim was like a boy. The intoxication of her presence sent all the foreboding from his brain. He did riding tricks, at her request, and set her marveling at his uncanny control of his mount. He seemed to be on intimate terms with the latter, stranger though it was. Weird "cluckings"

from his mouth were understood and obeyed without use of spurs.

"It's marvelous!" she said. "He seems to understand all those noises."

"It's horse language," he replied simply.

"Oh, come!"

He made no reply, but dismounted. The horse stood perfectly still.

"You watch out," he said. "I'm going to tell him to walk forrard."

He made a queer noise, like water running out of a bottle, and the animal walked forward. A slight variation of the sound, and it stopped. He laughed at her mystified expression, and bidding her ride on, ran at his horse and with a magnificent leap sprang clear on to its back. In a second he was rushing like the wind across the moor. He jerked up the animal until it stood almost perpendicular on its hind-legs, and came back to her.

"It's jest thinking in horse-sense," he said. "I ran a ranch for seven years, and you can't do that without thinking like a horse."

They sat on the top of Hay Tor, and looked across the tumbling country to where the sea lay like a strip of cloth twenty miles away. Right across the moors came the steady westerly wind, sighing and soughing, touching their cheeks with its fresh fingers.

"Is Colorado better than this?" she queried.

"You shouldn't ask me that."

"Why not?"

"It's your home, and one loves one's home."

"One loves one's home." The phrase amused her. He must have read that somewhere. She laughed, and instinctively he knew the cause of it. He bit his lips in anger as he realized that she merely mocked his attempts at better speech.

But he forgot that later as they rode home through the gloaming. Once only it occurred to him that to mock her horsemanship would be scarcely worse than jibing at his mode of expression--a thing which would have seemed sacrilege in his eyes. So all the culture--if culture meant refinement of thoughts and actions--was not confined to the blue-blooded aristocrats!

Sweet dreams, Colorado Jim! Dreams of a pair of blue eyes in the face of a Greek G.o.ddess, with limbs that Praxiteles never surpa.s.sed. And these to be won by a man from the wilderness! He awoke to despise the day with its uncertainties. She might be cold again this morning--cold as she had been the day before yesterday.

But it proved to be otherwise. She greeted him with a soft "Good-morning,"

and walked with him into the garden, among the roses and sweet-smelling things of summer. And then--oh, wonderful, exquisite marvel!--plucked a sprig of mignonette, smelled it, and placed it in his b.u.t.tonhole.

After breakfast he bought the property; and he bought it in a manner dear to the heart of the vendor. He wrote a cheque, then and there, for 25,000, and took a receipt, intimating that the "lawyer-man" would see to all the details later.

Something wonderful and mysterious had happened to Angela. Jim was too dazed to do anything but sit and gasp. He had held her hand, and she had let him do it. He had, with amazing intrepidity, taken her arm walking down the long avenue of trees, and she made no attempt to withdraw it.

Quick work was needed before some fly came and settled in the ointment! He got in his quick work that evening after dinner.

"Won't you come to the top of the hill? It's a full moon and a fine night," he whispered.

She nodded and, getting a scarf, went out with him. Blue, brilliant moonlight flooded the country. From out of the trees came the eerie cry of owls, and crickets sang out of nowhere. A few bars of gold still lingered in the western sky, deepening as the world moved over.

"I'm going back to-morrow," he said suddenly.

"Ah----!"

Was it a sigh, or merely an indifferent e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n?

"This holiday has been right down beautiful."

"I'm glad of that."

A slight breeze blew the scarf from her neck. He took it and replaced it, and his hand touched the soft warm flesh. It stayed there. He had no power to remove it. This girl of unearthly beauty and fascination paralyzed him. To think that he should be sitting there with the perfectest woman G.o.d ever made----! The storm within him broke. His body quivered, and his great hand took the warm slim one and held it like a vice.

"Angela--I've gotta tell you. I--love you. I've loved you since the first night I saw you. I've never wanted anything in my life like I want you."

He stopped, realizing that he was gabbing at a terrific rate.

"I'm rough--real rough, I know. But a man's a man for all that, I guess.

And what can any man offer you better'n love--love that ... I'm no good at words--you'll understand that. Chin music ain't my line. But I'm sure crazy about you."

The hand he held trembled a little, but it stayed there.

"Angela--will you marry me?"

Her head turned. He saw the moon reflected in two glorious eyes.

"Yes," she said slowly.

"You mean--you mean that?" he gasped, his voice almost choked with unutterable joy.

"Yes--I mean that."

In another second she was swept up in his arms. All the world went out in that pa.s.sionate embrace. For the first time in his life his mouth touched a woman's lips.

Featherstone paced up and down the library under the strain of considerable emotion, not to say excitement. Her Ladyship sat with an unread book on her knees gazing into nothingness.

"They're a long time," said Featherstone.

"Perhaps Angela----"

"Angela was sure," he interrupted. "Dear, dear! I wish they'd come back."

Lady Featherstone fidgeted.

"Claude, I don't like this business at all. Oh heaven! to think of Angela married to a parvenu--a common _nouveau riche_!"

"She might do far worse. Angela herself realizes that. Conlan undoubtedly loves her. It's for him to win her love. Once the marriage is celebrated, she need see him no more--er--that is to say, they can make arrangements whereby they do not become a nuisance to each other. He is apparently fond of this place, and Angela is not. What could be more natural than for Angela to take a flat in town and Conlan to live here?"

Lady Featherstone shivered.

"You think this man will reconcile the situation, once it becomes plain to him? Claude, he is a veritable giant. I--I don't like the look of him at all.... Oh, why couldn't we have waited and found a husband for Angela in her own set!"

Featherstone shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"Time brooks no delay. We are, my dear, in a pretty devilish position.

Thank G.o.d Angela realizes that. Rich husbands are not to be picked up every day, and it is essential that Angela marries a wealthy man, and that immediately."