Eleanor became conscious that a question had been asked fraught with
explosion; but the Senator smiled the big soft voiceless smile down in
his waist-coat as if not one of the group knew that memories of the
ghetto had not faded from his own generation.

"We're not strong on ancestry out West," he rubbed his whiskerless
chin. "It goes back too often to--" he looked up quietly at MacDonald,
"to bow and arrow aristocracy, scalps, in fact; but as for myself," if
a little oily, still the smile remained genial, "for myself, from what
my name means in French, I should judge we were Hugenots--what do you
call 'em?--Psalm singing lot that came over in that big boat, growing
bigger every year; boat that brought all the true blues over here;
Mayflower--that's what I'm trying to say--all our ancestors came over
in the Mayflower--"

The sheep rancher's thin lips slowly curled in a contemptuous smile.
"Then I guess my ancestors on one side of the house were chanting war
whoops to welcome you--"

Bat Brydges uttered a snort. Eleanor puckered her brows as at news.
The Senator was fanning himself again with his hat. Even Wayland was
smiling. He had heard political opponents of Moyese say that dynamite
wouldn't disturb the Senator. "Only way you could raise him was yeast
cake stamped with S: two sticks through it."

Certainly--Eleanor was thinking--there was some good in the worst of
dragons. St. George had put his foot on one ancient beast. Wasn't it
possible to tame this one, to tame all modern dragons, put a bit in
their mouths and harness them to good nation building?