urther
shore. Brande was in high spirits. Some new scientific experiment, I
assumed, had come off successfully. He was beside himself. His
conversation was volcanic. Now it rumbled and roared with suppressed
fires. Anon, it burst forth in scintillating flashes and shot out
streams of quickening wit. I have been his auditor in the three great
epochs of his life, but I do not think that anything that I have
recollected of his utterances equals the bold impromptus, the masterly
handling of his favourite subject, the Universe, which fell from him on
that evening. I could not answer him. I could not even follow him, much
less suppress him. But I had come forth with a specific object in view,
and I would not be gainsaid. And so, as my business had to be done
better that it should be done quickly. Taking advantage of a pause which
he made, literally for breath, I commenced abruptly:

"I want to speak to you about your sister."

He turned on me surprised. Then his look changed to one of such complete
contempt, and withal his bearing suggested so plainly that he knew
beforehand what I was going to say, that I blurted out defiantly, and
without stopping to choose my words:

"I think it an infernal shame that you, her brother, should allow her to
masquerade about with this good-natured but eccentric Metford girl--I
should say Miss Metford."

"Why so?" he asked coldly.

"Because it is absurd; and because it isn't decent."

"My dear Abraham," Brande said quietly, "or is your period so recent as
that of Isaac or Jacob? My sister pleases herself in these matters, and
has every right to do so."

"She has not. You are her brother."

"Very well, I am her brother. She has no right to think for herself; no
right to live save by my permission. Then I graciously permit her to
think, and I allow her to live."

"You'll be sorry for this nonsense sooner or later--and don't say I
didn't warn you." The absolute futility of my last clause struck me
painfully at the moment, but I could not think of any way to better it.
It was hard to reason with such a man, one who denied the fundamental
principles of family life. I was thinking over what to say next, when
Brande stopped and put his hand, in a kindly way, upon my shoulder.

"My good fellow," he said, "what does it matter? What do the actions of
my sister signify more than the actions of any other man's sister? And
what about the Society? Have you made up your mind about joining?"

"I