But, having
nothing to say, he did not vex himself to put it into words--a trait
which strongly appealed to Hilary.
"His name," said Dick Culver, laughing at his cousin over the big man's
shoulder, "is Jacques. He has another, but, as nobody ever uses it, it
isn't to the point, and I never was good at pronunciation. He is a French
Canadian, with a dash of Yankee thrown in. He is of a peaceable
disposition except when roused, when all his friends find it advisable
to give him a wide berth. He--"
"That'll do, my dear fellow," softly interposed the stranger, with a
gentle lift of the elbow in Culver's direction. "Leave Miss St. Orme to
find out the rest for herself! I hope she is not easily alarmed."
"Not at all, I assure you," said Hilary. "Never mind Dick! No one does.
Come inside!"
She led the way with light feet. Her exile from London during the season
promised to be less deadly than she had anticipated. Unmistakably she
liked Dick's wild man.
They found Bertie in the little roselit saloon, and as he welcomed the
stranger Culver drew Hilary aside. There was much mystery on his comical
face.
"I'll tell you a secret," he murmured; "this fellow is a great chief in
his own country, but he doesn't want anyone to know it. He's coming here
to learn a little of our ways, and he's particularly interested in
English women, so be nice to him."
"I thought you said he was a French Canadian," said Hilary.
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