Jim was her brother, her senior by some five or six years. There was a strong bond of affection between them, and she hoped to enlist him on her side. She did not tell Anthony, but she saw in front of her quite a big fight. It was not only the matter of money, though she knew that with her lay the chief hope of retrieving the family fortunes. It was the family pride that would be her great obstacle. An exceptionally ancient and umbrageous plant, the Coomber genealogical tree. An illustration of it hung in the library. Adam and Eve were pictured tending its roots. Adam, loosening the earth around it, while Eve watered it out of a goat skin. The artist had chosen the fig-leaf period. It was with Charlemagne that it began to take shape. From William the Conqueror sprang the branch that bore the Coomber family. At first they did not know how to spell their own name. It was not till the reign of James I that its present form had got itself finally accepted. Under this tree Eleanor and her brother sat one evening after dinner beside a fire of blazing logs. Sir Harry and Lady Coomber had gone to bed: they generally did about ten o’clock. Jim had brought his uniform down with him and had put it on: though shy of doing so before the servants. Fortunately there were not many of them. Neither had spoken for some few minutes. Jim had been feeling instinctively all the evening that Eleanor had had a purpose in sending for him. He was smoking a briar wood pipe. “I like you in your uniform, Jim,” she said suddenly; “you do look handsome in it.” He laughed. “Guess I’ll have to change into something less showy,” he answered. “Must you?” she asked. “Don’t see who is going to allow me fifteen hundred a year,” he answered; “and it can’t be done on less. There’s Aunt Mary, of course, she may and she mayn’t. Can’t think of any one else.” “It was rather a mistake, wasn’t it?” she suggested. “It’s always been the family tradition,” he answered. “Of course, it was absurd in our case. But then it’s just like the dear old guv’nor: buy the thing first and think about paying for it afterwards.” She was tapping the fender with her foot. “It’s putting it coarsely,” she said with a laugh, “but I’m afraid he was banking on me.” “You mean a rich marriage?” She nodded. He was leaning back in his chair, puffing rings of smoke into the air. “Any chance of it?” he asked. She shook her head. “Not now,” she said. “I’m in love.” It brought him up straight. “In love?” he repeated. “Why, you’re only a kid.” “That’s what I thought,” she answered, “up to a month ago.” “Who is it?” he asked. “A young local solicitor,” she answered, “the son of a blacksmith. They say his mother used to go out charring. But that may be only servants’ gossip.” “Good God,” he exclaimed. “Are you mad?”