s for yourself, Jennings," Stephen ordered.

"I thank ye kindly, sir," the old man replied.

He fetched a glass from the sideboard, filled it, and held it
respectfully before him.

"It's the old toast," Stephen said glumly. "You know it!"

"Aye, Master Stephen!" the servant assented. "We've drunk it together
for many a long year. I give it ye now with all my heart--confusion to
all women!"

They both glanced toward John, who showed no signs of movement. Then
they drank together, the older man and his servant. Still John never
moved. Jennings drained his glass, placed the decanter by his master's
side, and withdrew.

"So the poison's still there, brother?" Stephen asked.

"And will be so long as I live," John confessed gloomily. "For all that,
I'll not drink your toast."

"Why not?"

"There was a little girl--you saw her when you were in London. She is
married now, but I think of her sometimes; and when I do, you and old
Jennings seem to me like a couple of blithering idiots cursing things
too wonderful for you to understand!"

Stephen made no protest. For a time he smoked in silence. Curiously
enough, as they sat there together, some of the grim fierceness seemed
to have passed from his expression and settled upon John. More than
once, as he looked across at his younger brother, it almost seemed as if
there was something of self-reproach in his questioning look.

"You dined at the ordinary in Market Ketton?" Stephen asked at last.

"I did."

"Then you heard the news?"

"Who could help it?" John muttered. "There wasn't much else talked
about."

"Bailiff Henderson has been over here," Stephen went on. "There's a
small army of painters and decorators coming down to the castle next
week. You saw the announcement of the wedding in the _Morning Post_,
maybe?"

John assented without words. Stephen smoked vigorously for a few
moments. Every now and then he glanced across to where John was sitting.
Once again the uneasiness was in his eyes, an uneasiness which was
almost self-reproach.

"You mind what I called her once, John--a witch-woman? She is that,
right enough. This marriage of hers proves it. Although he is half a
Frenchman, the Prince of Seyre is the greatest landowner in the county.
He is the worst landlord, maybe, but the blood's there. He is a man who
has lived among women all his life. He should know something about them,
and be proof against their wiles. Yet he's going to marry her next
Thurs