And with Cordova he thought of Mary Standish.
He dressed and shaved and went down to breakfast, still thinking of her.
The thought of meeting her again was rather discomforting, now that the time of that possibility was actually at hand, for he dreaded moments of embarrassment even when he was not directly accountable for them.

But Mary Standish saved him any qualms of conscience which he might have had because of his lack of chivalry the preceding night.

She was at the table.

And she was not at all disturbed when he seated himself opposite her.

There was color in her cheeks, a fragile touch of that warm glow in the heart of the wild rose of the tundras.