o do so. Then two
of the young men rose, suddenly pinned him in their arms, carried him
out, and tied him in a lodge. The next morning they sent him out of
their country. Gaston was no philosopher, but he could place a thing
when he saw it: which is a kind of genius.

Presently Sir William said quietly:

"Mrs. Gasgoyne, you knew Robert well; his son ought to know you."

Gaston turned to Mrs. Gasgoyne, and said in his father's manner as much
as possible, for now his mind ran back to how his father talked and
acted, forming a standard for him:

"My father once told me a tale of the Keithley Hunt--something 'away
up,' as they say in the West--and a Mrs. Warren Gasgoyne was in it."

He made an instant friend of Mrs. Gasgoyne--made her so purposely. This
was one of the few things from his father's talks upon his past life. He
remembered the story because it was interesting, the name because it had
a sound.

She flushed with pleasure. That story of the Hunt was one of her
sweetest recollections. For her bravery then she had been voted by the
field "a good fellow," and an admiral present declared that she had a
head "as long as the maintop bow-line." She loved admiration, though she
had no foolish sentiment; she called men silly creatures, and yet would
go on her knees across country to do a deserving man-friend a
service. She was fifty and over, yet she had the springing heart of a
girl--mostly hid behind a brusque manner and a blunt, kindly tongue.

"Your father could always tell a good story," she said.

"He told me one of you: what about telling me one of him?"

Adaptable, he had at once fallen in with her direct speech; the more
so because it was his natural way; any other ways were "games," as he
himself said.

She flashed a glance at her sister, and smiled half-ironically.

"I could tell you plenty," she said softly. "He was a startling fellow,
and went far sometimes; but you look as if you could go farther."

Gaston helped himself to an entree, wondering whether a knife was used
with sweetbreads.

"How far could he go?" he asked.

"In the hunting-field with anybody, with women endlessly, with meanness
like a snail, and when his blood was up, to the most nonsensical place
you can think of."

Forks only for sweetbreads! Gaston picked one up. "He went there."

"Who told you?"

"I came from there."

"Where is it?"

"A few hundred miles from the Arctic circle."

"Oh, I didn't think it was that clim