“Mr. Chamberlain and Mr. Lloyd-Jones,” announced the servant.

As Miss Reynier swept forward with outstretched hand to greet the new-comers, Van Camp fixed his eyes on his hostess with a mingled expression of masculine rage and submission.  Whether he thought her too cordial toward the other men or too cool toward himself, was not apparent.  Presently he, too, was shaking hands with the visitors, who were evidently old friends of the house.  Madame Reynier, the aunt of mademoiselle, was summoned, and Van Camp was marooned on a sofa with Lloyd-Jones, who was just in from the West.  Aleck found himself listening to an interminable talk about copper veins and silver veins, a new kind of assaying instrument, and the good luck attendant upon the opening of Lloyd-Jones’ new mine, the Liza Lu.

Aleck was the essence of courtesy to everything except sham, and was able to indicate a mild interest in Mr. Lloyd-Jones’ mining affairs.  It was sufficient.  Lloyd-Jones turned sidewise on his end of the sofa, spread out plump, gesticulating hands, and poured upon him an eloquent torrent of fact, speculation and high-spirited enthusiasm concerning Idaho in general and the future of the Liza Lu in particular.  More than that, by and by his cheerful, half-impudent manner threatened to turn poetic.

“It’s great, living in the open out there,” he went on, by this time including the whole company in his exordium.  “You ride, or tramp, or dig rock all day; and at night you lie down under the clear stars, thankful for your blanket and your rock-bed and your camp-fire; and more than thankful if there’s a bit of running water near by.  It’s a great life!”

Miss Reynier listened to him with eyes that were alternately puzzled and appreciative.  It was a discourse that would have seemed to her much more natural coming from Aleck Van Camp; but then, Mr. Van Camp really did the thing—­that sort of thing—­and he rarely talked about it.  It had probably been Mr. Lloyd-Jones’ first essay in the world out of reach of his valet and a club cocktail; and he was consequently impressed with his achievement.  It was evident that Miss Reynier and the amateur miner were on friendly terms, though Aleck had not seen or heard of him before.  He had hob-nobbed with Mr. Chamberlain in London and on more than one scientific jaunt.  The slightest flicker of jealous resentment gleamed in Aleck’s eyes, but his speech was as slow and precise as ever.

“I was just trying to convince Miss Reynier that outdoor life has its peculiar joys,” he said.  “I was even now suggesting that she should dig, though not for silver.  Does Mr. Lloyd-Jones’ lucre seem more alluring than my little wriggly beasts, Miss Reynier?”

If Aleck meant this speech for a trap to force the young woman to indicate a preference, the trick failed, as it deserved to fail.  Miss Reynier was able to play a waiting game.

“I couldn’t endure either your mines or your mud-puddles.  You are both absurd, and I don’t understand how you ever get recruits for your hobbies.  But come over and see this new engraving, Mr. Jones; it’s an old-fashioned picture of your beloved Rhine.”