“Little!” exclaimed Colston. “How many hands make a big horse in this country? I’m speaking of the hunter you cajoled the second groom into saddling when your father was away. Can’t you remember how you insisted on putting her at the Newby brook?”
“I don’t seem to place it somehow,” said Prescott in alarm, seeing that if he were called upon to share any more reminiscences it might lead him into difficulties. “You know I’ve been out here a while.”
“Long enough to forget, it seems.”
Prescott made a bold venture.
“That’s so; perhaps it’s better. This is a brand new country. One starts afresh here, looking forward instead of back.”
Muriel considered this. The idea was, she thought, appropriate, but the man’s tone and air were not what one would have expected of a reformed rake. There was no hint of contrition; he spoke with optimistic cheerfulness.
“Of course,” Colston agreed. “I wonder if I might say that you have grown more Canadian than I expected to find you?”
“More Canadian?” Prescott checked himself in time and laughed. “Is it surprising? You drive and starve out many a good man who dares to be original—I’ve met a number of them. Can you wonder that when they’re welcomed here they’re willing to forget you and become one with the people who took them in?”
“In a way, that’s a pity,” said Mrs. Colston. “We like to think we haven’t lost you altogether.”
Disregarding his horses, Prescott turned toward her with a bow.