"How demure Miss McRae is," he commented. "Observe those long eyelashes flutter down to the soft cheeks." "In what book did you read that?" she wanted to know. "In that book of suffering known as experience," he sighed, eyes dancing. "If you're trying to tell me that you're in love with some girl--" "Haven't I been trying to tell you for a year?" Her eyes flashed a challenge at him. "Take care, sir. First thing you know you'll be on thin ice. You might break through." "And if I did--" "Of course I'd snap you up before you could bat an eye. Is there a girl living that wouldn't? And I'm almost an old maid. Don't forget that. I'm to gather rosebuds while I may, because time's flying so fast, some poet says." "Time stands still for you, my dear," he bowed, with a gay imitation of the grand manner. "Thank you." Her smile mocked him. She had flirted a good deal with this young man and understood him very well. He had no intention whatever of giving up the gay hazards of life for any adventure so enduring as matrimony. Moreover, he knew she knew it. "But let's stick to the subject. While you're proposing--" "How you help a fellow along!" he laughed. "Am I proposing?" "Of course you are. But I haven't found out yet whether it's for yourself or Mr. Morse." "A good suggestion--novel, too. For us both, let's say. You take your choice." He flung out a hand in a gay debonair gesture. "You've told his merits, but I don't think I ever heard yours mentioned," she countered. "If you'd recite them, please." "It's a subject I can do only slight justice." He bowed again. "Sergeant Beresford, at your service, of the North-West Mounted." "Sergeant! Since when?" "Since yesterday. Promoted for meritorious conduct in the line of duty. My pay is increased to one dollar and a quarter a day. In case happily your choice falls on me, don't squander it on silks and satins, on trips to Paris and London--" "If I choose you, it won't be for your wealth," she assured him. "Reassured, fair lady. I proceed with the inventory of Sergeant Beresford's equipment as a future husband. Fond, but, alas! fickle. A family black sheep, or if not black, at least striped. Likely not to plague you long, if he's sent on many more jobs like the last. Said to be good-tempered, but not docile. Kind, as men go, but a ne'er-do-well, a prodigal, a waster. Something whispers in my ear that he'll make a better friend than a husband." "A twin fairy is whispering the same in my ear," the girl nodded. "At least a better friend to Jessie McRae. But I think he has a poor advocate in you. The description is not a flattering one. I don't even recognize the portrait." "But Tom Morse--"