Do you, Mr. Steele, happen to belong to any of his clubs?"

"No." He spoke in a low voice, almost harshly.

Her brow lifted; his face was turned from her. Had he been mindful he
might have noted a touch of displeasure on the proud face, that she
regarded him as from a vague, indefinite distance.

"Lord Ronsdale is a very old friend of my uncle's," she observed
severely, "and--mine!"

Was it that she had divined a deep-seated prejudice or hostility toward
the nobleman hidden in John Steele's breast, that she took this occasion
to let him know definitely that her friends were her friends? "Even when
I was only a child he was very nice to me," she went on.

He remained silent; she frowned, then turned to the nobleman with a
smile. Lord Ronsdale found that her greeting left nothing to be desired;
she who had been somewhat unmindful of him lately on a sudden seemed
really glad to see him. His slightly tired, aristocratic face lightened;
the sunshine of Jocelyn Wray's eyes, the tonic of youth radiating from
her, were sufficient to alleviate, if not dispel, ennui or lassitude.

"So good of you!" she murmured conventionally, as Steele dropped
slightly back among the others who had by this time drawn near. "To
arrive at such an unfashionable hour, I mean!"

His pleased but rather suspicious eyes studied her; he answered lightly;
behind them now, he who had been riding with my lady could hear their
gay laughter. Lord Ronsdale was apparently telling her a whimsical
story; he had traveled much, met many people, bizarre and otherwise, and
could be ironically witty when stimulated to the effort. John Steele did
not look at them; when the girl at a turn in the way allowed her glance
a moment to sweep aside toward those following, she could see he was
riding with head slightly down bent.

"Good-looking beggar, isn't he," observed the nobleman suddenly, his
gaze sharpened on her.

"Who?" asked the girl.

"That chap, Steele," he answered insinuatingly.

"Is he?" Her voice was flute-like. "What is that noise?" abruptly.

"Noise?" Lord Ronsdale listened. "That's music, or supposed to be!
Unless I am mistaken, _The Campbells are Coming_," he drawled.

"The Campbells? Oh, I understand! Let us wait!"

They drew in their horses; the black one became restive, eyed with
obvious disapproval a gaily bedecked body of men swinging smartly along
toward them. At their head marched pipers, blowing lustily; behind
strode doughty clansme