Mrs. Grant supervised the work in the kitchen, while willing, although not always skilful, hands assisted in the distribution of the refreshments. This was the stage of the evening’s entertainment at which the social spirit flowed highest; men and women, boys and girls, sat or stood about in disorganised groups, eating sandwiches, cake and pie, and consuming great cups of hot coffee, the while sharpening their wits at each other’s expense and joining as heartily in the laugh when it happened to be at their own.
A middle-aged gentleman whose appearance stirred some old memory in Burton, seeing the young man seated a little by himself, came over and engaged in conversation.
“If my old eyes do not deceive me, you are a son of John Burton’s,” said he.
“I am Raymond Burton. And you—surely I should remember you?”
“Man, man, I know your father like my own brother. Sure you’ve heard him speak of Dick Matheson? We shantied together on the Muddywaski, and a better man than John Burton never rode a log in the Ottaway country, which is sayin’ a good deal. I do not see you dancin’ much. I’m thinkin’ you will have your father’s quiet way; like a sleepy kitty, he was, when left alone, but a roarin’ lion when put to the bit. But times are changed, and men win more now with soft speech than we did with hard knuckles. And whichever the game, a Burton should be to the fore. Grant,” he said, addressing the head of the house, as he was about to pass, “this is Raymond Burton. I knew his father on the Muddywaski.” To honest Dick Matheson no further credentials seemed necessary.
“Glad to meet you,” said Mr. Grant, cordially. “Have you been introduced to my niece? Dear me, I’m afraid the reception committee are too busy with the sandwiches. Myrtle, just a moment,” as the young lady emerged from an eddy of humanity, “let me present Mr. Burton. Mr. Burton—Miss Vane,” and the two elder gentlemen allowed themselves to be swept into the vortex of the crowd.
Miss Vane took Burton’s hand in a friendly grip—a grip that was not afraid to speak of the soul behind it. “I am a stranger here, and I meet so many people, but I shall remember you,” she said in quiet, musical tones, in such striking contrast, Burton thought, to the strident country voices about him.
“I am a stranger too,” the young man answered for want of a better thing to say.
“Then we at least have something in common,” said Miss Vane, and it occurred to Raymond that he had said the best thing possible.
In a moment the young lady was claimed by other guests. But Burton was satisfied.