matters to ME," Claud Dalzell announced, in a high tone, the crust of
his fine manners giving to the pressure of the volcano within. "I can't
stand the connection, if you can. Carey was bad enough, but he had some
claim beside his coat to rank as a gentleman. This crawling ass, who
would lick your boots for sixpence, to have him patting me on the back
and calling himself my brother--Good God! it's too sickening."

"Not YOUR brother," Deb gently corrected him.

"He is mine if he is yours." "Oh, not necessarily!"

"Deb," said Claud, with an air of desperation, planting himself before
her, "what are you going to do?"

She looked up at him with narrowing eyes and stiffening lips.

"What IS there to do?" she returned. "Are you going to put up with
this--this outrage--to condone everything--to tolerate that fellow at
Redford, taking the position of a son of the house, or are you going to
show them both that they have forfeited their right ever to set foot
upon the place again?"

"My sister too, you mean?"

"Certainly--if you can still bring yourself to call her your sister.
She belongs to him now, not to us. She has voluntarily cut herself off
from her world. Let her go. Deb, if you love me--"

He paused, and Deb smiled into his handsome but disgusted face.

"Ah, is that to be a test of love?" she asked. "I understand. I am to
choose between you. Well"--she rose, towering, drawing the big diamond
from her engagement finger--"I am going to her now. I ought to have
been there hours ago, but waited back to receive you. Good-bye! And
pray, don't come again to this contaminated house. We have too horribly
gone down in the world. I know it, and I would not have you compromised
on any account. We Pennycuicks, we don't abandon our belongings,
especially when they may be dying; we sink or swim together." She held
the jewel out to him.

"What rot!" he blurted vulgarly, flushing with anger that was not
unmixed with shame. "Why will you wilfully misunderstand me? Put it on,
Deb--put it on, and don't be so childish."

"I will not put it on," said she, "until you apologise for the things
you have been saying to me, and the manner of your saying them."

"My dear child, I do apologise humbly, if I have said what I shouldn't.
Perhaps I have; but I thought we were past the need for reserves and
for weighing words, you and I. And really, Debbie, you know--"

"Hush!" She stopped him from further arguing; but she did not stop him
f