"
Maud Barrington's curiosity was piqued. Lance Courthorne, outcast and
gambler, was at least a different stamp of man from the type she had
been used to, and, being a woman, the romance that was interwoven with
his somewhat iniquitous career was not without its attractions for her.
"I did not know that you included farming among your talents, and
should have fancied you would have found it--monotonous," she said.
"I did," and the provoking smile still flickered in Winston's eyes.
"Are not all strictly virtuous occupations usually so?"
"It is probably a question of temperament. I have, of course, heard
sardonic speeches of the kind before, and felt inclined to wonder
whether those who made them were qualified to form an opinion."
Winston nodded, but there was a little ring in his voice. "Perhaps I
laid myself open to the thrust; but have you any right to assume I have
never followed a commendable profession?"
No answer was immediately forthcoming, but Winston did wisely when, in
place of waiting, he turned to Miss Barrington. He had left her niece
irritated, but the trace of anger she felt was likely to enhance her
interest. The meal, however, was a trial to him, for he had during
eight long years lived for the most part apart from all his kind, a
lonely toiler, and now was constrained to personate a man known to be
almost dangerously skillful with his tongue. At first sight the task
appeared almost insuperably difficult, but Winston was a clever man,
and felt all the thrill of one playing a risky game just then.
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