Amber flushed boyishly. "There was a girl at Quain's--a guest.... But
she left before I dared speak. Perhaps it was as well."

"Why?"

"Because she was too fine and sweet and good for me, Rutton."

"Like every man's first love."

The elder man's glance was keen--too keen for Amber to dissimulate
successfully under it. "You're right," he admitted ruefully. "It's the
first sure-enough trouble of the sort I ever experienced. And, of
course, it had to be hopeless."

"Why?" persisted Rutton.

"Because--I've half a notion there's a chap waiting for her at home."

"At home?"

"In England." The need for a confidant was suddenly imperative upon the
younger man. "She's an English girl--half English, that is; her mother
was an American, a schoolmate of Quain's wife; her father, an
Englishman in the Indian service."

"Her name?"

"Sophia Farrell." A peculiar quality, a certain tensity, in Rutton's
manner, forced itself upon Amber's attention. "Why?" he asked. "Do you
know the Farrells? What's the matter?"