you laughing at?"

"Nothing. Only it sounded so much like 'nevertheless, my grandsire
drew a long bow at the battle of Hastings'--don't you remember, in
'Ivanhoe?'"

The professor sighed. "I have forgotten 'Ivanhoe,'" he said, "which
means, I suppose, that I have forgotten youth. Sometimes its ghost
walks, though. I think it was that which kept me so restless at
home. I thought that if I could get away--You see, before the war, I
was gathering material for a book on primitive psychology and when I
came back I found some of the keenness gone." He smiled grimly. "I
came back inclined to think that all psychology is primitive. But I
wanted to get to work again. I had never studied the West Coast
Indians and your father's letters led me to believe that--er--"

It was not at all polite of her to laugh, but he had to admit that
her laughter was very pleasant and young.

"It is funny, you know," she murmured apologetically. "For I am sure
you pictured father as a kind of white patriarch, surrounded by his
primitive children (father is certain to have called the Indians his
'children'!). Unfortunately, the Indians detest father. They're half
afraid of him, too. I don't know why. Years ago, when we lived up
coast--" she paused, plainly annoyed at her own loquacity, "we knew
plenty of Indians then," she finished shortly.

"And are there no Indians here at all?"

"There is an Indian reservation at North Vancouver. That is the