“Looking like what?” exclaimed the Colonel, his face becoming at once a perfect picture of radiant cheer. “Why doesn’t somebody do something about it?” she asked petulantly. “What can any one do? Anyway, what are you talking about, my dear?” inquired her husband, illogically. “You know quite well. You are worrying yourself to no end.” “Worrying myself? Nonsense! And what about you?” “The whole thing is about as bad as it could be. The man is doing nothing to his place. Buildings, fences, corrals, everything is going to wreck and ruin. And he hasn’t done a thing all this summer.” “My dear, the man is ill. And he is hard up. I happen to know his Bank has turned him down.” “Yes, you have good reason to know,” said his wife, with significant emphasis. “My dear, we won’t speak of——” “Oh, it is all very well, but you can’t go on like this. Something ought to be done. That man is about desperate. He may do anything some day. And he shuts himself up in that bungalow from everyone except Paul—and that creature, Sleeman.” “I don’t like that fellow. I don’t trust him,” said the Colonel. “He has the worst sort of influence over poor Gaspard, with his poker and his whiskey.” “My dear, there will be a tragedy there some day, you mark my words.” “Oh, nonsense! But what can I do? Why can’t some of you ladies do something for the family?” “There you are again!” cried his wife, lifting up her hands in despair. “You can’t get near her. She is an Indian through and through, proud, reserved. You can’t patronise her a——” “But why should you?” “Well, you know what I mean,” replied his wife impatiently. “Our women went at my solicitation prepared to be quite kind to her. She made them feel—Why, Mrs. Powers said to me, ‘She actually patronised us. Made me feel as if she were quite my equal.’” “And why not?” asked the Colonel simply. “In what is Mrs. Powers the superior of this Indian lady?” “Oh, I’m not snobbish, Edgar, as you probably know by this time, but——” His wife’s voice was coldly indignant. “My dear, my dear,” the Colonel hastened to apologise, “who would suggest that you——” “Well, I must say it is very difficult. She won’t visit. Even her church—she was educated, you know, in a convent—even her church is a kind of barrier. She rides down to the Post all alone when the priest comes. I am in despair. I’ve tried my best, you’ve tried your best. The long and the short of it is the man and his place are going to ruin.” The Colonel remained silent. There was nothing to say. He had tried his best with Gaspard, and so far had failed. “If he would only brace up,” sighed Augusta. “But he seems to have lost his nerve.” “It is the last thing a man loses,” replied the Colonel gloomily. “And there’s that boy——” The Colonel lifted up his hand. “For God’s sake, don’t speak of the boy. He feels as you do.” “Nonsense! He does not understand the thing at all. He is perfectly happy.”