present her letter, or, after the letter was presented, should Mrs.
Engle introduce her to Mr. Norton?

It did not suggest itself to her until they had passed from the street,
through the cottonwoods and into the splendid living-room of the Engle
home, that her escort was not dressed as she had imagined all civilized
mankind dressed for a call. Walking through the primitive town his
boots and soft shirt and travel-soiled hat had been in too perfect
keeping with the environment for her to be more than pleasurably
conscious of them.

At the Engles', however, his garb struck her for a moment of the first
shock of contrast, as almost grotesquely out of place.

At the broad front door Norton had rapped. The desultory striking of a
piano's keys ceased abruptly, a girl's voice crying eagerly: "It's
Roddy!" hinted at the identity of the listless player, a door flung
open flooded the broad entrance hall with light. And then the outer
door framed banker Engle's daughter, a mere girl in her middle teens,
fair-haired, fair-skinned, fluffy-skirted, her eyes bright with
expectation, her two hands held out offering themselves in doubled
greetings. But, having seen the unexpected guest at the sheriff's
side, the bright-haired girl paused for a brief moment of uncertainty
upon the threshold, her hands falling to her sides.

"Hello, Florrie," Norton was saying quietly. "I have brought a caller
for your mother. Miss Engle, Miss Page."

"How do you do, Miss Page?" Florrie replied, regaining her poise and
giving one of her hands to each of the callers, the abandon of her