The free-handed Mitchells themselves, as a family, were no more. They had scattered, married or died, lost their money, gone to work, or otherwise disappeared. Vesper kept knowledge of but two of them: Lawyer Oscar, solid, steady, highly respectable, already in the way of becoming Squire Mitchell, and like to better the Mitchell tradition of prosperity--a warm man, a getting-on man, not to mention that he was the older nephew and probable heir to the McClintock millions; and Oscar's cousin, Stanley, youngest nephew of the millions, who, three years ago, had defied McClintock to his face. Stan Mitchell had always been wild, even as a boy, they said; they remembered now. It seemed that McClintock had commanded young Stan to break his engagement to that Selden girl--the schoolma'am at Brookfield, my dear--one of the hill people. There had been a terrible scene. Earl Dawson was staying at the Iroquois and his door happened to be open a little. "Then you'll get none of my money!" said the old gentleman. "To hell with your money!" Stan said, and slammed the door. He was always a dreadful boy, my dear! So violent and headstrong! Always picking on my poor Johnny at school; Johnny came home once with the most dreadful bruise over his eye--Stanley's work. So young Stan flung away to the West three years ago. The Selden girl still teaches the Brookfield District; Stan Mitchell writes to her, the mail carrier says. No-o; not so bad-looking, exactly--in that common sort of way! CHAPTER IX "Far be it from me to--to--" "Cavil or carp?" "Exactly. Thank you. Beautiful line! Quite Kipling. Far from me to cavil or carp, Tum-tee-tum-tee-didy, Or shift the shuttle from web or warp. And all for my dark-eyed lydy! Far be it from me, as above. Nevertheless--" "Why, then, the exertion?" "Duty. Friendship. Francis Charles Boland, you're lazy." "Ferdie," said Francis Charles, "you are right. I am." "Too lazy to defend yourself against the charge of being lazy?" "Not at all. The calm repose; that sort of thing--what?" Mr. Boland's face assumed the patient expression of one misjudged. "Laziness!" repeated Ferdie sternly. "'Tis a vice that I abhor. Slip me a smoke." Francis Charles fumbled in the cypress humidor at Ferdie's elbow; he leaned over the table and gently closed Ferdie's finger and thumb upon a cigarette. "Match," sighed Ferdie. Boland struck a match; he held the flame to the cigarette's end. Ferdie puffed. Then he eyed his friend with judicial severity. "Abominably lazy! Every opportunity--family, education--brains, perhaps. Why don't you go to work?" "My few and simple wants--" Boland waved his hand airily. "Besides, who am I that I should crowd to the wall some worthy and industrious person?--practically taking the bread from the chappie's mouth, you might say. No, no!" said Mr. Boland with emotion; "I may have my faults, but--" "Why don't you go in for politics?" "Ferdinand, little as you may deem it, there are limits."