The music began, and the girl passed from amidst her group of admirers
upon the arm of a tall, fair man, and was soon lost in the midst of the
throng of dancers.

"Who is that she is dancing with now?" asked Mrs. Abbot, presently. "I
didn't see her go off; I was watching Mr. Lablache standing alone and
disconsolate over there against the door. He looks as if some one had
done him some terrible injury. See how he is glaring at the dancers."

"Jacky is dancing with 'Lord' Bill. Yes, you are right, Lablache does
not look very amiable. I think this would be a good opportunity to
suggest a little gamble in the smoking-room."

"Nothing of the sort," snapped Mrs. Abbot, with the assurance of an old
friend. "I haven't half finished talking to you yet. It is a most
extraordinary thing that all you people of the prairie love to call each
other by nicknames. Why should the Hon. William Bunning-Ford be dubbed
'Lord' Bill, and why should that sweet niece of yours, who is the
possessor of such a charming name as Joaquina, be hailed by every man
within one hundred miles of Calford as 'Jacky'? I think it is both
absurd and--vulgar."

"Possibly you are right, my dear lady. But you can never alter the ways
of the prairie. You might just as well try to stem the stream of our
Foss River in early spring as try to make the prairie man call people by
their legitimate names. For instance, do you ever hear me spoken of by
any other name than 'Poker' John?"

Mrs. Abbot looked up sharply. A malicious twinkle was in her eyes.