"Why?" He all but stared. "Because you haven't a ghost of a chance with Florence. She'd laugh at you!" Ben's blue eyes were raised to a level with the other's glasses. "She'd laugh at me, you think?" he asked quietly. Scotty shifted uneasily. "Well, perhaps not that," he retracted, "but anyway, you haven't a chance. I like you, Ben, and I'm dead sorry that she is different. She comes, if I do say it, of a good family, and you--" of a sudden the Englishman found himself floundering in deep water. "And I am--an unknown," Ben finished for him. At that moment Scotty heartily wished himself elsewhere, but wishing did not help him. "Yes, to put it baldly, that's the word. It's unfortunate, damned unfortunate, but true, you know." Ben's eyes did not leave the other man's face. "You've talked with her, have you?" he asked. Scotty fidgeted more than before, and swore silently that in future he would keep his compassions to himself. "No, I've never thought it necessary so far; but of course--" Ben Blair lifted his head. "Don't worry, Mr. Baker, I'll tell her my pedigree myself. I supposed she already knew--that everybody who had ever heard of me knew." Scotty forgot his nervousness. "You'll--tell her yourself, you say?" "Certainly." The Englishman said nothing. It seemed to him there was nothing to say. For a moment there was silence. "Mr. Baker," said Blair at last, "as long as we've started on this subject I suppose we might as well finish it up. I love your daughter; that you've guessed. If I can keep her here, I'll do so. It's my right; and if there's a God who watches over us, He knows I'll do my best to make her happy. As to my mother, I'll tell her about that myself--and consider the matter closed." Again there was silence. As before, there seemed to the Englishman nothing to say. Blair turned toward the ranch-house. "I saw Ma Graham motioning for dinner quite a while ago," he said. "Let's go in and eat." CHAPTER XI LOVE'S AVOWAL A distinct path, in places almost a beaten road, connected the Box R and the Baker ranches. Along it a tall slim youth was riding a buckskin pony. He was clean-shaven and clean-shirted; but the shirt was of rough brown flannel. His leather trousers were creased and baggy at the knees. At his hip protruded the butt of a big revolver. Upon his head, seemingly a load in itself, was a broad sombrero; and surrounding it, beneath a band which at one time had been very gaudy but was now sobered by sun and rain, were stuck a score or more of matches. Despite the motion of the horse the youth was steadily smoking a stubby bull-dog pipe. The time was morning, early morning; it was Winter, and the sun was still but a little way up in the sky. The day, although the month was December, was as warm as September. There had not even been a frost the previous night. Mother Nature was indulging in one of her many whims, and seemed smiling broadly at the incongruity.