from who knows what source, she found strength to meet the days and her
friends with that unfailing sweetness that was as poignant as the
clinging fingers of a sick child.

Jack, Katherine, DeWitt, Cartwell, all were unwearying in their effort
to amuse her. And yet for some reason. Cartwell alone was able to
rouse her listless eyes to interest. Even DeWitt found himself eagerly
watching the young Indian, less to guard Rhoda than to discover what in
the Apache so piqued his curiosity. He had to admit, however
reluctantly, that Kut-le, as he and Rhoda now called him with the
others, was a charming companion.

Neither DeWitt nor Rhoda ever before had known an Indian. Most of
their ideas of the race were founded on childhood reading of Cooper.
Kut-le was quite as cultured, quite as well-mannered and quite as
intelligent as any of their Eastern friends. But in many other
qualities he differed from them. He possessed a frank pride in himself
and his blood that might have belonged to some medieval prince who
would not take the trouble outwardly to underestimate himself. Closely
allied to this was his habit of truthfulness. This was not a blatant
bluntness that irritated the hearer but a habit of valuing persons and
things at their intrinsic worth, a habit of mental honesty as bizarre
to Rhoda and John as was the young Indian's frank pride.

His attitude toward Rhoda piqued her while it amused her. Since her
childhood, men had treated her with deference, had paid almost abject
tribute to her loveliness and bright charm. Cartwell was delightfully
considerate of her. He was uniformly courteous to her. But it was the
courtesy of _noblesse oblige_, without a trace of deference in it.