“I have no doubt we shall weather them as we have done before,” said the Colonel. “Still, I can’t help admitting that just now I feel—a little tired—and am commencing to think we should have been better prepared for the struggle had we worked a trifle harder during the recent era of prosperity. I could wish there were older heads on the shoulders of those who will come after me.”
Just then Maud Barrington glanced at them, and Dane, who could not remember having heard his leader talk in that fashion before, and could guess his anxieties, was a little touched as he noticed his attempt at sprightliness. As it happened, one of the lads at the piano commenced a song of dogs and horses that had little to recommend it but the brave young voice.
“They have the right spirit, sir,” he said.
“Of course!” said Barrington. “They are English lads, but I think a little more is required. Thank God we have not rated the dollar too high, but it is possible we have undervalued its utility, and I fear I have only taught them to be gentlemen.”
“That is a good deal, sir,” Dane said quietly.
“It is. Still, a gentleman, in the restricted sense, is somewhat of an anachronism on the prairie, and it is too late to begin again. In the usual course of nature I must lay down my charge presently, and that is why I feel the want of a more capable successor, whom they would follow because of his connexion with mine and me.”
Dane looked thoughtful. “If I am not taking a liberty—you still consider the one apparently born to fill the place quite unsuitable?”
“Yes,” said Barrington quietly. “I fear there is not a redeeming feature in Courthorne’s character.”
Neither said anything further, until there was a tapping at the door, and, though this was a most unusual spectacle on the prairie, a trim English maid in white-banded dress stood in the opening.
“Mr. Courthorne, Miss Barrington,” she said.