"Yes, by divine right," responded the older man. The Irishman adjusted his monocle, to view Esther more critically. "She looks more like an English woman," he said meditatively. "Rather too slender to be a beauty." "She was born on the free soil of America," continued his companion, "and has some ideas of her own." The Irishman smiled cynically. "As if a pretty girl ever had ideas of her own! She usually knows just what her mamma or governess teaches her. I always find a pretty girl an easy victim. I've broken more than one innocent's heart." He twirled his moustache. "You'll not get on so well with Miss Bright. You see, she is used to meeting _men_." John Clayton looked a trifle wicked, as he continued, "She might take you for a long-headed animal with long ears." But the last remark was lost upon the Irishman, whose attention was fixed upon Esther Bright. "You say her ancestors were savages, Mr. Clayton?" "I suppose they _were_ savages, same as ours. She has the best heritage the ages can give,--a healthy body, a beautiful mind, and a heroic soul." John Clayton's voice, half ironical, had an undertone of seriousness. "A heroic soul! A heroic soul!" The Irishman raised his monocle again. "I didn't suppose savages had souls. I've always imagined this fad about souls came with civilization." "I have begun to think," answered his companion, "that with much of the so-called civilization, men and women are losing their souls. Miss Bright is a remarkable woman. She believes in the possibilities of every man and woman. It is her purpose in life to awaken the soul wherever she finds it dormant or atrophied." "Indeed!" Again the monocle was raised, and the Irishman's curious gaze was fixed upon the American girl, then engaged in conversation with a cowboy. Patrick Murphy now interrupted this dialogue. "Lord Kelwin, we wants yez ter dance an Irish jig." The lord lifted his eyebrows. "There's no one to dance an Irish jig with me unless you do it yourself, Patrick." Here there was a general laugh. "Come along wid yez," persisted Patrick, half carrying him toward the dance room. "Here," he said to Lord Kelwin, "here's light-footed Janette O'Neil will dance this wid yez." There was a stir. The center of the room was cleared, then out stepped Lord Kelwin, leading rosy, graceful Janette. She was lithe and dainty. The fiddler flourished his bow, drew it across the strings, and brought forth the strains of "Soldier's Joy,"--a melody that sets an Irishman's feet flying. Janette's short, red skirt showed her trim feet and ankles. Down the room came the two dancers, side by side, their feet fairly flying. Backward, again they danced, the length of the room, still keeping up the feathery rapidity of flying feet. Then Lord Kelwin swung his partner around and around; then facing each other, they danced apart. Expressions of admiring approval were heard. "Them's fine dancers!" "Go it, Kelwin! I'll bet on you."