whether his face would not have come nearer the standard of her dead
heroes if it had been adorned with side-whiskers. In his spare build
and thin, though healthy, cheeks, she saw tokens of an angular and acrid
soul. His voice, she noticed, had a slight vibrating or creaking sound
in it, as he laid down the manuscript and said:

"You must be very proud of your family, Miss Hilbery."

"Yes, I am," Katharine answered, and she added, "Do you think there's
anything wrong in that?"

"Wrong? How should it be wrong? It must be a bore, though, showing your
things to visitors," he added reflectively.

"Not if the visitors like them."

"Isn't it difficult to live up to your ancestors?" he proceeded.

"I dare say I shouldn't try to write poetry," Katharine replied.

"No. And that's what I should hate. I couldn't bear my grandfather
to cut me out. And, after all," Denham went on, glancing round him
satirically, as Katharine thought, "it's not your grandfather only.
You're cut out all the way round. I suppose you come of one of the most
distinguished families in England. There are the Warburtons and the
Mannings--and you're related to the Otways, aren't you? I read it all in
some magazine," he added.

"The Otways are my cousins," Katharine replied.

"Well," said Denham, in a final tone of voice, as if his argument were
proved.

"Well," said Katharine, "I don't see that you've proved anything."

Denham smiled, in a peculiarly provoking way. He was amused and
gratified to find that he had the power to annoy his oblivious,
supercilious hostess, if he could not impress her; though he would have
preferred to impress her.

He sat silent, holding the precious little book of poems unopened in
his hands, and Katharine watched him, the melancholy or contemplative
expression deepening in her eyes as her annoyance faded. She appeared to
be considering many things. She had forgotten her duties.

"Well," said Denham again, suddenly opening the little book of poems,
as though he had said all that he meant to say or could, with propriety,
say. He turned over the pages with great decision, as if he were judging
the book in its entirety, the printing and paper and binding, as well
as the poetry, and then, having satisfied himself of its good or bad
quality, he placed it on the writing-table, and examined the malacca
cane with the gold knob which had belonged to the soldier.

"But aren't you proud of your family?" Katharine demanded.