"But what did you do when you left England?" Bertram broke in.

"Went to East Africa; after that, to this country, where I tried my
hand at prairie farming. Found it decidedly monotonous and sold the
homestead at a profit. Then I did some prospecting, and now I'm here
on business."

"On business!" Bertram exclaimed. "You could never be trusted to get
proper value for a shilling!"

"I've learned to do so lately, and that's not going far. If you're in
commerce in this country, you must know how to put down fifty cents and
take up a dollar's worth. Anyhow, I'm here to meet an American whose
acquaintance I made farther West. He's a traveler in paints and
varnishes, and a very enterprising person, as well as an unusually good
sort. But I've told you enough about myself; I want your news."

Blanche thought it cost her husband an effort to fall in with his
cousin's casual mood. Blake, however, seemed quite at ease, and she
was growing interested in him. He reminded her of the Challoner
portraits in the dark oak gallery at Sandymere, but she thought him
lighter, more brilliant, and, in a sense, more human than those stern
soldiers. Then she remembered that his Irish blood explained something.

They talked a while about English friends and relatives; and then Blake
asked rather abruptly:

"And the Colonel?"

"Well," said Bertram, "I heard that you saw him, Dick."