"
The man laughed. "Of course he does; it's my place he's living in."
Barrington turned again to Winston, and his face seemed to have grown a
trifle stern.
"Who is this man?" he said.
Winston looked steadily in front of him, vacantly noticing the rows of
faces turned towards him under the big lamps. "If he had waited a few
minutes longer, you would have known," he said. "He is Lance
Courthorne."
This time the murmurs implied incredulity, but the man who stood
swaying a little with his hand on the chair, and a smile in his
half-closed eyes, made an ironical inclination.
"It's evident you don't believe it or wish to. Still, it's true," he
said.
One of the men nearest him rose and quietly thrust him into the chair.
"Sit down in the meanwhile," he said dryly. "By and by, Colonel
Barrington will talk to you."
Barrington thanked him with a gesture, and glanced at the rest. "One
would have preferred to carry out this inquiry more privately," he
said, very slowly, but with hoarse distinctness. "Still, you have
already heard so much."
Dane nodded. "I fancy you are right, sir. Because we have known and
respected the man who has, at least, done a good deal for us, it would
be better that we should hear the rest."
Barrington made a little gesture of agreement, and once more fixed his
eyes on Winston. "Then will you tell us who you are?"
"A struggling prairie farmer," said Winston quietly. "The son of an
English country doctor who died in penury, and one who from your point
of view could never have been entitled to more than courteous
toleration from any of you.
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