voice--"only mo' so, an dat chile was bawn to ride on de golden mule."

You would not, from his manner or voice or dress have called him an
American. You might have said he was a gentleman planter from Cuba or Java
or Fiji, or a successful miner from Central America who had more than a
touch of Spanish blood in his veins. He was not at all the type from over
sea who are in evidence at wild west shows, or as poets from a western
Ilion, who ride in the Row with sombrero, cloak and Mexican saddle.
Indeed, a certain officer of Indian infantry, who had once picked up some
irregular French in Egypt and at dinner made remarks on Telford's
personal appearance to a pretty girl beside him, was confused when Telford
looked up and said to him in admirable French: "I'd rather not, but I
can't help hearing what you say, and I think it only fair to tell you so.
These grapes are good. Shall I pass them? Poole made my clothes, and
Lincoln is my hatter. Were you ever in Paris?"

The slow, distinct voice came floating across the little table, and ladies
who that day had been reading the last French novel and could interpret
every word and tone smiled slyly at each other or held themselves still to
hear the sequel; the ill-bred turned round and stared; the parvenu sitting
at the head of the table, who had been a foreign buyer of some London
firm, chuckled coarsely and winked at the waiter, and Baron, the
Afrikander trader, who sat next to Telford, ordered champagne on the
strength of it. The bronzed, weather worn face of Telford showed
imperturbable, but his eyes were struggling with a strong kind of humor.
The officer flushed to the hair, accepted the grapes, smiled foolishly,
and acknowledged--swallowing the reflection on his accent--that he had
been in Paris. Then he engaged in close conversation with the young lady
beside him, who, however, seemed occupied with Telford. This quiet, keen
young lady, Miss Mildred Margrave, had received an impression, not of the