No answer was immediately forthcoming, but Winston did wisely when, in place of waiting, he turned to Miss Barrington.  He had left her niece irritated, but the trace of anger she felt was likely to enhance her interest.  The meal, however, was a trial to him, for he had during eight long years lived for the most part apart from all his kind, a lonely toiler, and now was constrained to personate a man known to be almost dangerously skillful with his tongue.  At first sight the task appeared almost insuperably difficult, but Winston was a clever man, and felt all the thrill of one playing a risky game just then.  Perhaps it was due to excitement that a readiness he had never fancied himself capable of came to him in his need, and, when at last the ladies rose, he felt that he had not slipped perilously.  Still, he found how dry his lips had grown when somebody poured him a glass of wine.  Then he became sensible that Colonel Barrington, who had apparently been delivering a lengthy monologue, was addressing him.

“The outlook is sufficient to cause us some anxiety,” he said.  “We are holding large stocks, and I can see no prospect of anything but a steady fall in wheat.  It is however, presumably a little too soon to ask your opinion.”

“Well,” said Winston, “while I am prepared to act upon it, I would recommend it to others with some diffidence.  No money can be made at present by farming, but I see no reason why we should not endeavor to cut our losses by selling forward down.  If caught by a sudden rally, we could fall back on the grain we hold.”

There was a sudden silence, until Dane said softly, “That is exactly what one of the cleverest brokers in Winnipeg recommended.”

“I think,” said Colonel Barrington, “you heard my answer.  I am inclined to fancy that such a measure would not be advisable or fitting, Mr. Courthorne.  You, however, presumably know very little about the practical aspect of the wheat question.”

Winston smiled.  “On the contrary, I know a great deal.”

“You do?” said Barrington sharply, and while a blunderer would have endeavored to qualify his statement, Winston stood by it.

“You are evidently not aware, sir, that I have tried my hand at farming, though not very successfully.”

“That at least,” said Barrington dryly, as he rose, “is quite creditable.”

When they went into the smaller room, Winston crossed over to where Maud Barrington sat alone, and looked down upon her gravely.  “One discovers that frankness is usually best,” he said.  “Now, I would not like to feel that you had determined to be unfriendly with me.”

Maud Barrington fixed a pair of clear brown eyes upon his face, and the faintest trace of astonishment crept into them.  She was a woman with high principles, but neither a fool nor a prude, and she saw no sign of dissolute living there.  The man’s gaze was curiously steady, his skin clear and brown, and his sinewy form suggested a capacity for, and she almost fancied an acquaintance with, physical toil.  Yet he had already denied the truth to her.  Winston, on his part, saw a very fair face with wholesome pride in it, and felt that the eyes which were coldly contemptuous now could, if there was a warrant for it, grow very gentle.