The Highgrader | Page 9

had touched the
rod before I had him netted I'd never have forgiven you," she confessed,
eyes glowing with the joy of her achievement.
"It's no joke to land one of these big fellows. I saw you were tired. But

it's the sporting thing to play your own fish."
Her dark eyes flashed a questioning glance at him. She had been
brought up in a society where class lines were closely drawn, but her
experience gave her no data for judging this young man's social
standing. Casual inquiries of old Ballard, the caretaker at the Lodge,
had brought her the information that the party of fishermen were miners
from the hills. This one went by the name of Crumbs and sometimes
Jack. What puzzled Miss Dwight was the difficulty of reconciling him
with himself. Sometimes he used the speech and the slow drawl of the
plainsman, and again he spoke with the correctness of one who has
known good society. In spite of his careless garb he had the look of
class. The well-shaped, lightly poised head, the level blue eyes of a
man unafraid, the grace with which he carried himself, all denied that
he was an uncouth rustic.
A young woman of impulse, she yielded to an audacious one now. "I'm
glad you let me do the sporting thing, Mr.--Crumbs."
His gentle laughter welled out. "Where did you get that?"
"Isn't it your name?" she asked, with a lift of the dark eyebrows.
He hesitated, barely an instant. Of course she knew perfectly well that
it was not his name. But it suited him not to give one more definite.
"I reckon it's a name good enough to bring me to dinner by," he
drawled, smiling.
He was back again in the Western idiom and manner. She wondered
why. The change had come when she had spoken his name. A certain
wariness had settled over his face like a mask. She could see that he
was purposely taking refuge in the class distinctions that presumably
separated them. Yet she could have sworn that nothing had been farther
from his mind during the exciting ten minutes in the water while voice
and presence and arm had steadied her for the battle.
They walked together up the slope to the big house. A fishing costume

is not a thing of grace, but the one this girl wore could not eclipse the
elastic suppleness of the slender figure or the joy in life that animated
the vivid face with the black curls straying from beneath the jaunty cap.
The long hip waders she wore so briskly gave her the look of a modern
Rosalind. To deny her beauty was easy, but in the soft sifted moonlight
showered down through the trees it was impossible for Kilmeny's eyes
to refuse her an admission of charm. There was a hint of pleasant
adventure in the dusky eyes of this clean-limbed young nymph, a
plastic energy in the provoking dainty face, that stung his reluctant
admiration. She had the gift for comradeship, and with it a freedom of
mind unusual in one of her class.
She ran up the steps of the Lodge lightly and thanked him with a
pleasant "Good-night." As he turned away Kilmeny came face to face
with another fisherman returning from the sport of the night. The man
opposite him was rather short and thickset. In his eyes was a look of
kind shrewd wisdom. Red-faced and white-bearded, he was
unmistakably an Englishman of the upper class.
Miss Dwight introduced him as Lord Farquhar, and the men shook
hands.
"Guess what I've got," demanded the young woman, her hands behind
her.
"Heaven only knows. It might be anything from the measles to a new
lover," smiled Farquhar.
She flashed upon him the fish that had been hidden behind her waders.
"By Jove! Catch him yourself?"
She nodded, her eyes shining.
Farquhar, very much a sportsman, wanted to know all about it, after
which he insisted on weighing the trout. Jack was dragged into the
Lodge to join in this function, and presently found himself meeting
Lady Farquhar, a pleasant plump lady who did not at all conform to the

usual stage conception of her part. Her smile was warm for this supple
blue-eyed engaging Westerner, but the latter did not need to be told that
behind her friendliness the instinct of the chaperone was alert. The one
swift glance she had thrown at Miss Dwight told him as much.
Into the room drifted presently Miss Seldon, a late novel in her hand. In
contrast with her sheathed loveliness Miss Dwight looked like a young
girl. There was something very sweet and appealing in Moya's slim
indefinite figure of youth, with its suggestion of developing lines, but
most men ceased to look at her