"Myself," he said simply.
She glanced up at him quickly. The speculation concerning him, which she had been forming during the morning, and her thought that his errand to St. Florentin was likely to influence her affairs, seemed better founded than she had guessed. He, too, was feeling an association of their interests, an association not yet to be defined but not powerless for that.
"Do you want to tell me something of your father, Miss Carew?" he asked.
"You mean where he lived? That was in Wyoming; we had a ranch once on the Powder River; later we—my father and myself, Mr. Loutrelle; my mother died when I was three—we moved to Sheridan, and he became interested in a large number of development projects. I know a good deal about them and what he did until he went to France a year and a half ago; he had irrigation and water-power works planned in Wyoming and Montana and other parts of the west. Is that what you wanted to know?"
"Partly. Then he wasn't connected particularly with this section?"
"Only through me—or my mother's family."
"Or with Charlevoix County across the lake?"
"Not at all; why?"
"That's the only place I ever was, before I went into the war—the section about twelve miles inland and six or seven miles this side of Boyne. You know that particular part, Miss Carew?"
"They've farms there, haven't they? Then your people lived—"
"I don't know where my own people lived, or what they were," Loutrelle interrupted quickly. "And the part I'm thinking of isn't farms. It's much like this,"
