of
the girl--she's handsome enough in spite of Hatty's nonsense about her
mouth--and I call it downright scandalous of Edmund Bland to leave every
last penny of his money away from her. But, mark my words, and I tell
George so every single day I live, if she marries George he's going to
have trouble as sure as shot. She's just the kind to expect him to make
sacrifices, and by Jove, no man wants to be expected to make sacrifices
in his own home!"

Sacrifices! My blood sang in my ears. If she would only marry me I'd
promise to make a sacrifice for her every blessed minute that I lived.

"And do you think she likes George, General?" I asked timidly.

"Oh, I don't suppose she knows her own mind," he retorted. "I never in
my life, sir, knew but one woman who did."

We drove on for a minute in silence, and from the red and watery look in
the General's eyes, I inferred that, in spite of his broken engagement
and his bitter judgment, Miss Matoaca had managed to retain her place in
his memory. As I looked at him, sitting there like a wounded eagle,
huddled under his fur rug, a feeling of thanksgiving that was almost one
of rapture swelled in my heart. If I had a plain name, I had also a
clean life to offer the woman I loved. When I remembered the strong,
pure line of her features, her broad, intelligent brow, her clear,
unswerving gaze, I told myself that whatever the world had to say, she,
at least, would consider the difference a fair one. At the great moment
she would choose me, I knew, for myself alone; choose in a democracy the
man who, God helping him, would stand always for the best in the
democratic spirit--for courage and truth and strength and a clean honour
toward men and women.

"Who was that pretty girl, Ben," the General enquired presently, "I saw
you walking with last Sunday? A sweetheart?"

"No, sir. My sister."

"A lady? She looked it."

"She has been taught like one."

"What'll you do with her? Marry her off?"

"I haven't thought--but she won't look at any of the men she knows."

"Oh, well, if the National Oil wins, you may give her a fortune. There
are plenty of young chaps who would jump at her. Bless my soul, she's
more to my taste than Sally Mickleborough. It's the women who are such
fools about birth, you know, men don't care a rap. Why, if I'd loved a
woman, she might have been born in the poorhouse for all the thought I'd
have given it. A pretty face or a small foot goes a long sight farthe