It is enough to say that now I heard his name it recalled nothing to me, and I took him from his dress to be a _workingman_ in the mine we visiting, though from his speech and manner of a gentleman, someone in authority. Dear, he was _so_ dear and so Westernly breezy and progressive and enterprising and so _appallingly candid_. I've been the "one woman", the "unknown but remembered ideal" since that encounter. Of course, that was to be said, but strangely enough he meant it. He was actually and unaffectedly making love to me. He's not so large or tall, but quick and springy, and muscled like a panther. He's not beautiful either but pleasant to look at, one of those broad high-cheeked faces one sees so much in the West, with the funniest quick yellowish grey eyes and the most disreputable moustache I ever saw, yellow and ragged, If he must eat it, I wish he would _eat it off even_ clear across. And he's likely to talk the most execrable slang, or to quote Browning. But he was making real love, and you know I'm not used to that. I'm accustomed to go my pace before sharply calculating eyes, to show if I'm worth the _asking price_. But here was real love being made off down in the earth (we'd run away from the others because I _liked him at once_). I don't mind telling you he moved me, partly because I had wondered about him from that night, and partly because of all I had come to feel about this new place and the new people, and because he seemed such a fine, active specimen of Western manhood. I won't tell you all the wild, lawless thoughts that scurried and _sneaked_ through my mind--they don't matter now--for all at once it came out that he was the only son of that wealthy Bines who died awhile ago--you remember the name was mentioned that night at your house when they were discussing the exodus of Western millionaires to New York; some one named the father as one who liked coming to New York to dissipate occasionally, but who was still rooted in the soil where his millions grew. There was the son before me, just _an ordinary man of millions_, after all--and my little toy balloon of romance that I'd been floating so gaily on a string of sentiment was pricked to nothing in an instant. I felt my nostrils expand with the excitement of the chase, and thereafter I was my _coldly professional self_. If that young man has not now a high estimate of my charms of person and mind, then have my ways forgot their cunning and I be no longer the daughter of Margaret Milbrey, _nee_ van Schoule.