Arthur had felt this at times acutely, but he had accepted the inevitable with such success that Lord Avesham had written him down indifferent as well as stupid, and what was in him only great sweetness of disposition was credited as _insouciance_. This, too, he bore with equanimity. Harry, his elder brother, his sister Jeannie, and himself had come down to Morton with their mother’s sister, Miss Fortescue, for the funeral of Lord Avesham, and were going to stop there for the present. Family councils had to be held about the disposition of affairs, and one was in progress on a morning in July about a fortnight after Lord Avesham’s death. They were certainly a remarkably handsome family, and it was to be conjectured that their good looks were a heritage--perhaps the most valuable he had bequeathed them--from their father, for the most that could be said about Miss Fortescue was that she had a very intellectual expression. Harry was sitting at a desk with some papers before him, and Miss Fortescue was sitting opposite him. Jeannie lounged in the window-seat, and Arthur was resting in a chair so long and low that all that could be seen of him was one knee and a great length of shin. The position of his head was vaguely indicated by a series of smoke-rings which floated upward at regular intervals. There had been silence for a few moments. Miss Fortescue’s baritone voice broke it. “Well, what does the black sheep say?” she demanded. There was a pause in the smoke-rings, and a voice asked: “Do you mean me, Aunt Em?” “Yes, dear. Whom else?” “I thought you must mean me, but it was best to ask,” said the voice. “I’m not a black sheep, though; I’m only a sheep.” Harry looked up, half impatient, half amused. “Oh, Arthur, don’t be so trying,” he said. “It really rests with you.” “I’d much sooner somebody settled for me,” said Arthur. “But they won’t; speak, sheep,” said Miss Fortescue. The chair in which Arthur sat creaked, and he struggled to his feet.