ntroduction could not but have the effect of singling
him out and making him more conspicuous when it came about.

John Gaviller carried Miss Pringle and the charming unknown up to the
clap-boarded villa until the humble shack attached to the English
mission could be made fit to receive them. Stonor went for a long walk
to cool his fevered blood. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself. By
his timidity, not to use a stronger word, he had lost precious hours;
indeed, now that he had missed his first opportunity, he might be
overlooked altogether. The other men would not be likely to help him out
at all. A cold chill struck to his breast at the thought. He resolved to
march right up to the guns of her eyes on his return. But he made a
score of conflicting resolutions in the course of his walk. Meanwhile he
didn't yet know whether she were Miss or Mrs., or what was her errand at
Fort Enterprise. True, he could have gone back and asked any of the men
who came on the boat, but nothing in the world could have induced him to
speak of her to anyone just then.

When he got back, it was to find the post in a fever of preparation.
John Gaviller had asked every white man to his house to dinner to meet
the ladies. It was to be a real "outside" dinner party, and there was a
sudden, frantic demand for collars, cravats and presentable foot-wear.
Nobody at the post had a dress-suit but Gaviller himself.

Of them all only Stonor had no sartorial problems; his new uniform and
his Strathcona boots polished according to regulations were all he had
and all he needed. He surveyed the finished product in his little mirror
with strong dissatisfaction. "Ornery-looking cuss," he thought. But a
man is no judge of his own looks. A disinterested observer might have
given a different verdict. A young man less well favoured by nature
would have gazed at Stonor's long-limbed ease with helpless envy. He had
that rare type of figure that never becomes encumbered with fat. The
grace of youth and the strength of maturity met there. He would make a
pattern colonel if he lived. Under the simple lines of his uniform one
apprehended the ripple and play of unclogged muscles. If all men were
like Stonor the tailor's task would be a sinecure.

As to his face, mention has already been made of the sober gaze
lightened by a suggestion of sly mirthfulness. In a company where
sprightliness was the great desideratum, Stonor, no doubt, would have
been considered slo