"That's the mistake you all make," Kilmeny told her. "The true romance of the West isn't in its clothes and its trappings." "Where is it?" she asked. "In its spirit--in the hope and the courage born of the wide plains and the clean hills--in its big democracy and its freedom from convention. The West is a condition of mind." Miss Dwight was surprised. She had not expected a philosophy of this nature from her chance barbarian. He had the hands of a working man, brown and sinewy but untorn; yet there was the mark of distinction in the lean head set so royally on splendid shoulders. His body, spare of flesh and narrow of flank, had the lithe grace of a panther. She had seen before that look of competence, of easy self-reliance. Some of the men of her class had it--Ned Kilmeny, for instance. But Ned was an officer in a fighting regiment which had seen much service. Where had this tanned fisherman won the manner that inheres only in a leader of men? "And how long does it take to belong to your West?" asked the young woman, with the inflection of derision. But her mockery was a fraud. In both voice and face was a vivid eagerness not to be missed. "Time hasn't a thing to do with it. Men live all their lives here and are never Westerners. Others are of us in a day. I think you would qualify early." She knew that she ought to snub his excursion into the personal, but she was by nature unconventional. "How do you know?" she demanded quickly. "That's just a guess of mine," he smiled. A musical voice called from within the house. "Have you seen my _Graphic_, Moya?" A young woman stood in the doorway, a golden-white beauty with soft smiling eyes that showed a little surprise at sight of the fisherman. A faint murmur of apology for the interruption escaped her lips. Kilmeny could not keep his eyes from her. What a superb young creature she was, what perfection in the animal grace of the long lines of the soft rounded body! Her movements had a light buoyancy that was charming. And where under heaven could a man hope to see anything lovelier than this pale face with its crown of burnished hair so lustrous and abundant? Miss Dwight turned to her friend. "I haven't seen the _Graphic_, Joyce, dear." "Isn't it in the billiard room? Thought I saw it there. I'll look," Verinder volunteered. "Good of you," Miss Joyce nodded, her eyes on the stranger who had turned to leave.