"That makes no difference," she parried. "We--Daddy and I--cannot but admire such a remarkable engineer." Ashton shrugged. "The dam was a big thing. I fail to see why you should admire Blake just because he happened to blunder on the idea that solved the difficulty." "You do not like him," she said with frank directness. He hesitated and looked away. When he replied it was with evident reluctance: "No, I do not. He is--You would hardly admire him personally, even though he did bully Genevieve Leslie into marrying him." "He is married?" exclaimed the girl. "No wonder you are surprised," said Ashton. "It was the most amazing thing imaginable--she the daughter of H. V. Leslie, one of our wealthiest financiers, and he a rough, uncouth drunkard." "Drunkard?" almost screamed the girl. "No, no, not drunkard! I cannot believe it!" "He certainly was one until just before Genevieve married him," insisted Ashton. "I hear he has managed to keep sober since." "O-o-oh!" sighed Miss Isobel, making no effort to conceal her vast relief. She attempted a smile. "I am so glad to hear that he is all right now. Of course he must be!... You say he married an heiress?" "She is worth three millions in her own right, and Leslie is as daft over him as she is. Leslie and my father are the ones who backed him on the Zariba Dam." "How interesting! And I suppose Mr. Blake is a Western man. So many of the best engineers come from the West." Ashton looked at her suspiciously. He could not make out her interest in Blake. She apparently had come to regard the engineer as a sort of hero. Yet why should she continue to inquire about him, now that she knew he was a married man? "I'm sure I cannot tell you," he replied, somewhat stiffly. "The fellow seems to have come from nowhere. Had it not been for an accident, he would never have got within speaking distance of Genevieve, but they happened to be shipwrecked together alone--on the coast of Africa." "Wrecked?--shipwrecked? How perfectly glorious!" "I wouldn't mind it myself--with you!" he flashed back. "I might," she bantered. "This Mr. Blake, I imagine, was hardly a tenderfoot." "No, he was a roughneck," muttered Ashton. "You do not like him," she remarked the second time. "Why should I, a low fellow like that? I've heard that he even brags that he started in the Chicago slums." The girl put her hand to her bosom. "In the--the Chicago slums!" she half whispered. "No wonder you are surprised," said Ashton. "Anyone would presume that he would keep such a disgrace to himself. It shows what he is--absolutely devoid of good taste." "Is he--What does he look like?" she eagerly inquired. Ashton shrugged. "Pardon me. I prefer not to talk any more about the fellow." Miss Isobel checked her curiosity. "Very well, Mr. Ashton." She looked around, and suddenly flourished her leathern quirt. "Look--there are Kid and Daddy trying to head us. Come on, if you want a race. I'm going to beat them down to Dry Fork."