Alas, for that throb of vanity! His contrition did not have the true ring.
The girl turned upon him with quick distrust. No, he was more glad than sorry.
"If we were in England," she cried, with withering scorn, "you would have to be more than sorry."
"In England?"
"Yes, in England, or in Ireland, or anywhere round there. If I'd shot so much as a miserable pheasant on your land you'd have—you'd have had me up before the bailey!"
Clearly the girl's reading of English fiction had confused her ideas of British magistracy. But Sir Bryan was generous, and overlooked side issues.
"Is this your land?" he asked, gazing at the wild mountain side, and then at the flaming cheeks of the girl. She stood there like an animated bit of autumn coloring.
"Of course it's my land," she declared.
"But I didn't know it was your land."
"You knew it wasn't yours!" she cried vehemently.
Poor Sir Bryan was hopelessly bewildered. The great West was, after all, not quite like the rest of the world, if charming young ladies owned the mountain sides, danced attendance
