"I do not know," he said. "I thought that—I thought that, before we sailed, on the deck here I had seen him with you. You and two American gentlemen I thought I saw: one young and stout. I thought the gentleman young and stout went ashore. Perhaps not. Perhaps it was the other that went ashore. Perhaps that was your father."
There was a moment's silence. Muriel looked intently at the ragged horizon.
"The stout man was Mr. Holt," she said at last. "He is a friend of mine—of ours."
"Ah?" said von Klausen, disinterestedly polite.
"My husband," said Muriel, "is not elderly."
"I ask his pardon," said von Klausen. He produced his bow again. He remained quite at his ease, but his manner implied a courteous wonder at any person's shame of his years. "He is then——"
"He is not so much over forty," lied Muriel, without the remotest idea why she should be thus untruthfully communicative.
Von Klausen ever so slightly turned his head away. She was immediately sure that he did it to conceal a smile.
"That is not old," she hotly contended. She made up her mind now that she did not like this graceful young foreigner. "And Jim is not so old as his age," she continued—"not nearly. He has lived half his life in our Great West, and he is as strong as a lion—and as brave."
She felt the folly of her remark as she made it, but von Klausen gave no sign of sharing that feeling. He settled himself comfortably in Jim's chair. She saw that his face was wholly innocent, his eyes only politely eager.