“That idea has occurred to others,” replied Mr. Carteret, without turning his head. He was absorbed in the enjoyable discovery that the scene before him was like a hunting-print. The browns of the wood and bracken, the winter green of the hill pastures, the scarlet coats, the gray sky of the English winter, were all happily true to art. “As I say,” he went on, “the idea has occurred to others, but I have never heard that any one made money.” “That is because they haven’t sent over good horses,” said Barclay. “Suppose we brought over only such thoroughbred horses as we raise on the Wyoming ranch.” “I don’t think it would make any difference,” said Mr. Carteret. “There is a prejudice against American horses.” “Exactly,” said Barclay; “and the way to meet it would be to have them ridden and handled by a well-known Englishman. In fact, I have the man in mind.” “Who?” “Young Granvil,” was the answer. Why Barclay should be interested in making money out of a horse business or in any other way had perplexed Mr. Carteret, for it was not according to his habits of mind. Now it became clear to him, and he suppressed a cynical smile. “I don’t suppose Lady Withers has discussed this matter with you,” he observed. “In a general way, yes,” replied Barclay; “but it was my suggestion.” “Of course,” said Mr. Carteret. Barclay paused awkwardly for a moment, then he said: “Why shouldn’t I talk it over with Lady Withers? She is a very intelligent woman, and a good judge of a horse.” “An excellent judge of almost everything,” said his friend, “and especially of young men. My son,” he continued (Barclay was five years his junior), “it is commendable of Lady Withers to provide for the Hon. Cecil James Montague Granvil. He is her nephew and flat broke, and he needs people to look after him because he is almost less than half-witted. But that is no reason why you should be the person to look after him.” “You are unjust to Cecil,” said Barclay, “and most unkind in your insinuations as to Lady Withers. This was my own idea entirely, and I think it would be profitable for both of us. You know you are always complaining because I don’t take more interest in the ranches.” “If I have been unkind to Lady Withers,” said Mr. Carteret, “I am going to be much more so.” Barclay looked challengingly. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “Lady Withers,” said Mr. Carteret, “is a widow, aged forty-four,--you can verify that in Burke,--a man-eater by temperament and habit. You are twelve years younger than she, with a great deal more money than is good for you. Whether she intends to marry you I don’t pretend to know, but it is not unlikely. At any rate, you are unquestionably on the list as a source of income and supply.” Somewhat to Mr. Carteret’s surprise, Barclay listened calmly. “Do you really think Lady Withers considers me eligible?” he asked. “She does, if she has any true conception of your securities.”