despise him. Neither I nor any of mine shall ever truck and traffic with
him and his. When you are a man and can understand, I shall tell you
more of this."

But he had never told. It had never been a mooted point. Jack MacRae
knew Horace Gower only as a short, stout, elderly man of wealth and
consequence, a power in the salmon trade. He knew a little more of the
Gower clan now than he did before the war. MacRae had gone overseas with
the Seventh Battalion. His company commander had been Horace Gower's
son. Certain aspects of that young man had not heightened MacRae's
esteem for the Gower family. Moreover, he resented this elaborate summer
home of Gower's standing on land he had always known to be theirs, the
MacRaes'. That puzzled him, as well as affronted his sense of ownership.

But these things, he told himself, were for the moment beside the point.
He felt his father's life trembling in the balance. He wanted to see
affectionate, prideful recognition light up those gray-blue eyes again,
even if briefly. He had come six thousand miles to cheer the old man
with a sight of his son, a son who had been a credit to him. And he was
willing to pocket pride, to call for help from the last source he would
have chosen, if that would avail.

He crossed the lawn, waited a few seconds till the piano ceased its
syncopated frenzy and the dancers stopped.

Betty Gower herself opened at his knock.

"Is Mr. Gower here?" he asked.

"Yes. Won't you come in?" she asked courteously.

The door opened direct into a great living room, from the oak floor of
which the rugs had been rolled aside for dancing. As MacRae came in out
of the murk along the cliffs, his one good eye was dazzled at first.
Presently he made out a dozen or more persons in the room,--young people
nearly all. They were standing and sitting about. One or two were in
khaki--officers. There seemed to be an abrupt cessation of chatter and
laughing at his entrance. It did not occur to him at once that these
people might be avidly curious about a strange young man in the uniform
of the Flying Corps. He apprehended that curiosity, though, politely
veiled as it was. In the same glance he became aware of a middle-aged
woman sitting on a couch by the fire. Her hair was pure white,
elaborately arranged, her eyes were a pale blue, her skin very delicate
and clear. Her face somehow reminded Jack MacRae of a faded rose leaf.

In a deep armchair near her sat Horace Gower. A you