That a fork was ever meant for anything but spearing bread never dawned on Frederica Calhoun until the arrival at her father's big Montana ranch of Lord Cecil Grosvenor, a prospective buyer. He opened her eyes to an hitherto undreamed of world of refinement and good form, and she in turn appealed to his imagination by her crack riding, her beautiful lariat dances which the cowboys had taught her, and her unfailing sweet disposition and sunny bubbling good spirits. But on their betrothal, with its subsequent visit to Lord Grosvenor's sister, a New York society woman the idyll showed a flaw. Redfern gowns, afternoon teas and the formal social routine of the patrician Knickerbockers did wonders for Frederica, transforming the cocoon into a butterfly. But to Grosvenor it was demoralizing, and word of his escapades reached Frederica's ears. The night of the French Ball she borrowed a suit of men's evening clothes and hid by a stage door where with her own eyes she saw her fiancé come out ...
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