“Ellie Carleton, it’s never you!” chirped a familiar voice.

I turned, a bit dazed with the unexpected interruption, and saw that it was Edith Loroman, whom I had last seen in the East the summer before, when I was gyrating through Newport and all those places, with Barney MacTague for chaperon, and whom I had known for long.  Edith had chosen to be very friendly always, and I liked her—­only, I suspected her of being a bit too worldly to suit me.

“And why isn’t it I?  I can’t see that my identity is more surprising than yours,” I retorted, pulling myself together.  It did certainly give me a start to see her there, and looking so exactly as she had always looked.  I couldn’t think of anything more to say, so, as the music had started, I asked her if she had any dances saved for me.  I couldn’t decently leave her and carry out my original plan, you see.

She laughed at my ignorance, and told me that this was a “frontier” dance, and there were no programs.

“You just promise one or two dances ahead,” she explained.  “As many as you can remember.  Beryl told me all about how they do here; Beryl King is my cousin, you know.”

I didn’t know, but I was content to take her word for it, and asked her for that dance and got it, and she chattered on about everything under the sun, and told all about how they happened to be in Montana, and how long they were going to stay, and that Mr. Weaver had brought his auto, and another fellow—­I forget his name—­had intended to bring his, but didn’t, and that they were going to tour through to Helena, on their way home, and it would be such fun, and that if I didn’t come over right away to call upon her, she would never forgive me.

“There’s a drawback,” I told her.  “I’m not on your cousin’s visiting-list; I’ve never even been introduced to her.”

“That,” said Miss Edith complacently, “is easily remedied.  You know mama well enough, I should think.  Aunt Lodema—­funny name, isn’t it?—­is stopping here all summer, with Beryl.  Beryl has the strangest tastes.  She will spend every summer out here with her father, and if any of us poor mortals want a glimpse of her between seasons, we must come where she is.  She’s a dear, and you must know her, even if you do hold yourself superior to us women.  She’s almost as much a crank on athletics as you are; you ought to see her on the links, once!  That’s why I can’t understand her running away off here every summer.  And, by the way, Ellie, what are you doing here—­a stranger?”

“I’m earning my bread by the sweat of my brow,” I told her plainly.  “I’m a cowboy—­a would-be, I suppose I should say.”

She looked up at me horrified.  “Have you—­lost—­your millions?” she wanted to know.  Edith Loroman was always a straightforward questioner, at any rate.

“The millions,” I told her, laughing, “are all right, I believe.  Dad has a cattle-ranch in this part of the world, and he sent me out here to reform me.  He meant it as a punishment, but at present I’m getting rather the best of the deal, I think.”