Boone had intended no comedy effect. He spoke in decorous gravity, and he knew of no reason why an outburst of laughter should sweep the place as he finished. Prince caught an unidentified voice from his back. It was low pitched, but it fell on the silence that succeeded the laugh, and he feared that the boy must have caught it too. "One of the tobacco-yaps from the back of the place, I expect." At once General Prince stepped forward and laid his hand on Boone's shoulder. Under his palm he felt a tremor of anger and hurt pride, and he spoke clearly. "This young gentleman," he said--and though his eyes were twinkling with a whimsical light, his voice carried entire and calculated gravity--"is a friend of mine, Mr. Boone Wellver of Marlin County. I've enjoyed the hospitality of his people." There was a puzzled pause, and the General, whose standing here was as secure as that of Petronius at Nero's court, continued. "In the mountains when a party is given no invitations are issued. Word simply goes out as to time and location, and whoever cares to come--comes." The explanation was meant for those inside, but the boy in the doorway caught from it a clarifying of matters for his own understanding as well. Obviously here one did _not_ come without being bidden, and that left him in the mortifying attitude of a trespasser. It came with a flash of realization and chagrin. He yearned to blot himself into the kindly void of the night behind him--yet that rude type of dignity which was bred in him forbade the humiliation of unexplained flight. Such a course would indeed stamp him as a "yap," and however shaggy and unkempt his appearance might be in this ensemble of silk and broadcloth he was as proud as Lucifer. Heretofore a "dancing-party" had meant to him, shuffling brogans where shadows leaped with firelight and strings of fiddle and "dulcimore" quavered out the strains of "Turkey-in-the-straw" or "I've got a gal at the head of the hollow." He had expected this to be different, but not _so_ different, and he had need to blink back tears of shame. But, all the more for that, he drew himself straight and stiff and spoke resolutely, though his voice carried the suspicion of a tremor. "I fear me I've done made a fool mistake an' I reckon I'll say farewell ter you-all, now." Even then he did not wheel precipitately, under the urge of his anxiety to be gone, but paused with a forced deliberation, and, as he tarried, little Anne Masters stepped impulsively forward. Anne had reigned with a captivating absolutism from her cradle on. Swift impulses and ready sympathies governed much of her conduct, and they governed her now.