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houses in Wairiri, isn’t it?” said Nell to Ann, “You remember him at Tirau, don’t your? He never went anywhere then.”

“Does he go out much here?” asked Ann, casually.

Nell Brunton laughed.

“I think he dodges as many invitations as he can, but the Garland girls are crazy about him. Still, I don’t fancy he wastes much time on any one, except Stephanie Hemingway. I wonder if Mrs. Ford likes it—that friendship.”

“He’s a good chap,” said Kent.

“Yes, but he isn’t quite———"

“Quite what?” asked Kent, looking down at Nell with a smile.

“Well—educated, or———”

“Just as well educated as the rest of us.”

“His father was a plowman.”

“One or two of our Prime Ministers haven’t been any better born.”

“He isn’t a Prime Minister.”

“He may be some day. How do you know?”

They continued to argue quite amiably, but Ann took no part in the discussion. What did it matter to her what his father had been, or what he himself might eventually become? It was more Stephanie Hemingway’s business apparently than hers.

The horses were cantering down to the starting-post. Kent lent Ann his glasses to pick them out. Green jacket and orange cap—those were the colors of Nigger’s jockey—easy to distinguish in the distance. Against the horse’s shining black coat they suddenly reminded her of the coloring of her own bright show-room. She wondered if Marsh had chosen them for