down on them from another sphere. They were all about the age of Jethro
Fawe, but were of a less civilized type, and had semi-barbarism written
all over them. Unlike Jethro they had never known the world of cities.
They repudiated Fleda, because their ambition could not reach to her.
They recognized the touch of fashion and of form, of a worldly education,
of a convention which lifted her away from the tan and the caravan, from
the everlasting itinerary. They had not had Jethro's experiences in
fashionable hotels of Europe, at midnight parties, at gay suppers, at
garish dances, where Gorgio ladies answered the amorous looks of the
ambitious Romany with the fiddle at his chin. Because these young
Romanys knew they dare not aspire, they were resentful; but Jethro,
the head of the rival family and the son of the dead claimant to the
headship, had not such compulsory modesty. He had ranged far and wide,
and his expectations were extensive. He was nowhere to be seen in the
groups which sang and gestured in the light of the many coloured fires,
though once or twice Fleda's quickened ear detected his voice, exulting,
in the chorus of song.

Presently, as she stood watching, listening, and strangely moved in spite
of herself by the sudden dramatic turn which things had taken, a seat was
brought to her. It was a handsome stool, looted perhaps from some
chateau in the Old World, and over it was thrown a dark-red cloth which
gave a semblance of dignity to the seat of authority, which it was meant
to be.

Fleda did not refuse the honour. She had choked back the indignant words
which had rushed to her lips as she left the tent where she had been
lying. Prudence had bade her await developments. She could not yet make
up her mind what to do. It was clear that a bold and deep purpose lay
behind it all, and she could not tell how far-reaching it was, nor what