"Yes, I have been more open with you than you with me. _I_ feel no pride where you are concerned. Of course my brother's conduct towards them is no excuse for their conduct towards you, but when one has a sore heart one is apt to be unjust, and many other things. You know what a heart-break he has been to the old people, _and is_! A gambler, a dishonorable gambler!" He turns away from her, and his nostrils dilate a little; his right hand grows clenched. "Every spare penny they possess has been paid over to him of his creditors, and they are not over-burdened with riches. They had set their hearts on him, and all their hopes, and when he failed them they fell back on me. The name is an old one; money was wanted. They had arranged a marriage for me, that would have been worldly wise. I _too_ disappointed them!" "Oh!" she has sprung to her feet, and is staring at him with horrified eyes. "A marriage! There was someone else! You accuse me of want of candor, and now, you--did you ever mention this before?" "Now, Barbara, don't be the baby your name implies," says he, placing her firmly back in her seat. "I _didn't_ marry that heiress, you know, which is proof positive that I loved you, not her." "But she--she--" she stammers and ceases suddenly, looking at him with a glance full of question. Womanlike, everything has given way to the awful thought, that this unknown had not been unknown to him, and that perhaps he had admired--loved---- "Couldn't hold a candle to you," says he, laughing in spite of himself at her expression which, indeed, is nearly tragic. "You needn't suffocate yourself with charcoal because of her. She had made her pile, or rather her father had, at Birmingham or elsewhere, I never took the trouble to inquire, and she was undoubtedly solid in _every way_, but I don't care for the female giant, and so I--you know the rest, I met _you_; I tell you this only to soften your heart, if possible, towards these lonely, embittered old people of mine." "Do you mean that when your brother disappointed them that they----" she pauses. "No. They couldn't make me their heir. The property is strictly entailed (what is left of it); you need not make yourself miserable imagining you have done me out of anything more than their good-will. George will inherit whatever he has left them to leave." "It is sad," says she, with downcast eyes. "Yes. He has been a constant source of annoyance to them ever since he left Eton." "Where is he now?" "Abroad, I believe. In Italy, somewhere, or France--not far from a gaming table, you may be sure. But I know nothing very exactly, as he does not correspond with me, and that letter of this morning is the first I have received from my father for four years." "He must, indeed, hate me," says she, in a low tone. "His elder son such a failure, and you--he considers you a failure, too." "Well, _I_ don't consider myself so," says he, gaily.