Katherine Fargo was watching with a gaze that held a curious puzzle. After that recognition of the White Knight, Judge Chalmers had told in a few words the story of Damory Court, its ancient history, the unhappy duel that had sent its owner into a Northern exile, and the son’s recent coming. It had more than surprised her. Her father’s appreciative chuckle that “the young vagabond seemed after all to have fallen on his feet” had left her strangely silent. She was undergoing a curious mental bouleversement. Valiant’s passionate defense of his father in that fierce burst of anger in the court room had at first startled her with its sense of unsuspected force. Later, however, she had come to think it theatric and overdrawn, and she had heard of his quixotic surrender of his fortune with a wonder not unmixed with an almost pitying scorn. She despised eccentricity as much [Pg 296]as she respected wealth, and the act had seemed a ridiculous impulse or a silly affectation, destined to be repented long and bitterly in cold blood. So she had thought of him since his evanishment with a regret less sharp for being glozed with a certain contempt. The discovery of him to-day had dissipated this. She had an unerring sense of social values and she made no error in her estimate of the people by whom she was now surrounded. The recital of the Valiant generations, the size of the estate, the position into which its heir had stepped by very reason of being who he was, appealed to her instinct and imagination and respect for blood. She had a sudden conception of new values, beside which money counted little. The last of a line more ancient than the state itself, master of a homestead famous throughout its borders, John Valiant loomed larger in her eyes at the moment than ever before. The trumpet again pealed its silvery proclamation. Judge Chalmers was on his feet. “Fifty to ten on the Crimson Rose,” he cried. This time, however, there were no takers. He called again, but none heard him; the last tilts were too absorbing. Where had John Valiant learned that trick of the loose wrist and inflexible thrust, but at the fencing club? Where that subconscious management of the rein, that nice gage of speed and distance, but on the polo field? The old sports stood him now [Pg 297]in good stead. “Why, he has a seat like a centaur!” exclaimed the judge—praise indeed in a community where riding was a passion and horse-flesh a fetish! “Oh, dear!” mourned Nancy Chalmers. “I’ve bet six pairs of gloves on Quint Carter. Never mind; if it has to be anybody else, I’d rather it were Mr. Valiant. It’s about time Damory Court got something after Rip-Van-Winkling it for thirty years. Besides, he’s giving us the dance, and I love him for that! Quint still has a chance, though. If he takes the next two, and Mr. Valiant misses—” Katherine looked at her with a little smile. “He won’t miss,” she said.