"To be sure I can. But then no doubt your father told him the rest, or has done by this time. There's no harm in that. I like people to know that I am independent. Well, now tell me about _him_. He isn't a great favourite of yours, is he?" "No, not a great favourite." Ivy seemed always to weigh her words. "I don't know him very well. He has always lived in London, and I've never seen him more than once a year. I'm afraid he doesn't care much about the things that I prize most, but he is kind and very clever, I believe. Father always says he might have been a great artist if he had chosen." "Then why didn't he choose?" "I can't say. So many people seem to fall far short of what they might have been." "Women do--what else can you expect? But men are free. I suppose he is rich?" "No, not rich. He seems to have enough for his needs." Serena indulged her thoughts. "I felt I disliked him at first," she said, presently. "But he is improved. He can talk well, I should think. I suppose he is always in clever society?" "I suppose so." "And why doesn't he invite you to London, and take you to see people?" "Oh, he knows me better than that!" replied Ivy, with a laugh. Whilst the girls talked thus, Eustace Glazzard and his brother were also in confidential chat. They had gone to the library and made themselves comfortable with cigars--a cellaret and glasses standing within reach. The rooms at Highmead gave evidence of neglect. Guests were seldom entertained; the servants were few, and not well looked after. "She has, I dare say, thirty thousand," William Glazzard was saying, with an air of indifference. "I suppose she'll marry some parson. Let us hope it's one of the fifty-pound curates." "Deep in the old slough?" "Hopelessly--or Ivy wouldn't be so thick with her." When he had spoken, William turned with an expressive smile. "Still, who knows? I rather like the girl. She has no humbug about her--no pretence, that's to say. You see how she dresses." "A bad sign, I'm afraid." "Well, no, not in this case, I think. Her home accounts for it. That old ass, Mumbray, and his wife make things pretty sour for her, as the Germans say; at least, I guess so." "I don't dislike her appearance--intelligent at bottom, I should imagine." There followed a long silence. Eustace broke it by asking softly: "And how do things go with you?" "The same as ever. Steadily down-hill. I had better let the place before it gets into a thoroughly bad state. And you?" His brother made no answer, but sat with bent head. "You remember Stark," he said at length, "the lawyer? He wants me to stand for Polterham at the next election." "You? In place of Welwyn-Baker?" "No; as Liberal candidate; or Radical, if you like." "You're joking, I suppose!" "Where's the impossibility?" Their eyes met.