“I am so sorry,” grieved Mary, as if Redford had failed in its sacred duty of hospitality.  “I will tell him about it.  The men have all been so busy with the shearing.”

She was also distressed that she could not definitely invite Ruby for the impending holidays.  But Deb had issued her commands that Redford was not to be saddled with a nurseless child at Christmas, when everybody’s hands would be full.

Mary was Ruby’s willing foster-mother when Redford had her in charge; she was also the kindest hostess of them all to Ruby’s father.  To her was left the task of entertaining him, and she never neglected it.  Naturally, he gave her no thanks.  When he said that what Ruby needed was a mother’s tender care, it was at Deborah he looked, who never turned a hair’s-breadth in his direction at any time, except when good manners obliged her, and who was not tender to Ruby, whom she called “that brat”, and had smartly spanked on several occasions.

A beautiful woman cannot help having objectionable lovers any more than a king can help a cat looking at him.  This man—­a most well-meaning, good-hearted, useful little underbred person, typical of so large a class in the Colonial Church—­was Deb’s pet aversion, and did not know it.  He was not made to see his own deficiencies as she saw them.  When first she flashed upon his dazzled vision, splendid in a scarlet dinner gown, and carrying her regal head as if the earth belonged to her, he really saw no reason why he, with his qualifications of comparative youth, good looks (his sort of good looks), and notorious pulpit eloquence, should not aspire to rush in where so many feared to tread.  His rush had been checked at the outset, but he was still unaware of the nature of the barrier that Deb held rigid between them.  He continued to gaze at her with his ardent little black eyes as if no barrier were there.  And it was because he did so that Deb, who could not slap him for it, slapped Ruby sometimes, and called her a brat, and would not have her asked to Redford for the holidays; thereby giving occasion to envious Alice Urquhart for that warning to Guthrie Carey not to trust his baby to her.

There was still another lover present—­the favoured lover.  He sat with Alice near the piano where Francie and her governess were playing duets, listening without listening to his companion’s jerky talk—­ those pathetic attempts to attract him which so many second-rate girls were not too proud to make obvious to his keen apprehension.  Claud Dalzell’s distinction was that he was the most polished young man of his social circle.  He had had all the advantages that money could give and in addition, was naturally refined and handsome.  To hear Claud Dalzell read poetry, or sing German folk-songs to his own graceful accompaniment, was to make a poet of the listener; to dance with him was pure enchantment (to another good dancer); he was the best horseman in the land; and if his present host could not appreciate his many charms—­except perhaps the last named—­others did.  The whole race of girls, more or less, fell down and worshipped him.