As his guest returned from the bathroom, sweeping the water-drops from his beard by drawing his hand down over it, Sir William said: "Will you be offended if I ask you a question--a straight question--Nixon, old chap?" "You couldn't offend me now, English," said John Nixon, "anyhow straight questions goes, between us, after this. That's our agreement, ain't it?" "That's it, exactly," said Ware, "so my question is this: Why do you persist in calling me 'English'? It sounds a bit like some sort of an imputation. Do you see my point?" "I don't foller you," said John Nixon, as he laid his hand on the door-knob; "the only reason I call you 'English' is because your reel name keeps slippin' my mind." "It shouldn't be hard to remember," said Ware. "What is it?" queried Nixon. "To you, henceforth," said the baronet, "it is--Bill." "Yes, that's you, all over again," said Lovina Nixon, late that evening, as she thrust into her iron-gray hair two or three matutinal hairpins, in places where they would not jab her, and clambered into bed, "astin' these tony English people out to the farm, to turn up their noses at everything. Well, Daise'll have to look after them, for I got enough to do with the housework and the milkin'. Is the old woman coming along, too?" John Nixon yawned, turned his back to her, and wrapped around himself two-thirds of the bed-clothes. "You go on to sleep," he said, "you'll feel better in the mornin'." Lovina, however, continued on rebelliously, although the rest of her grumbling was sunk to a smothered monotone by her nightly habit of sleeping with the blankets over her head; but her last thought before she dropped off to sleep was that now at last she would have a chance to bring from the back of the farmhouse cupboard the "weddin' set" of neat china that had been waiting there during nearly a quarter of a century for an appropriate guest. "No, I don't think I shall go, William," said Lady Frances, adjusting the cushion at the back of her son's head and handing him the evening newspaper, "this northwest winter is here now--don't forget that it's November, not May, outside--and the plan sounds to me rather too much like Polar exploration. You say you intend to go out for the winter. Well, if you survive the experience, perhaps I shall join you in the spring. But surely you're not going to start on this wild expedition the way you are. I am told it is difficult to go on snowshoes with a crutch. Those people, too! William, you are insane." "Mother, dear," Ware patted the capable old hand that rested on his chair-arm, "you said that once before, you remember. And that reminds me--we haven't discussed this with Daisy. Let's have her in now, if she's about." "She's about," rejoined Lady Frances--a little sarcastically, but with an unconcealed accent of motherly affection--, "she's having tea with McTavish, the cook." CHAPTER XXI. IN THE BLIZZARD.