The great irony of his existence, and of his current fixation on a woman he had never met, was that the same restless hunger which drove him to her, and which was so transparent in his eyes, had acted as both a heart-throb and aphrodisiac on a score of beautiful women, English and Scottish alike, and he could have picked from their number anyone he wished. Servant girls, ladies, wives and mistresses of other men, all were quite helpless before his sharp and demanding emerald gaze, enhanced as it was by his high position and rakish good looks. At any moment there were always two or three jewel-like creatures who considered themselves deeply in love with him, and would gladly have forsaken all others to be his wife. But of these he wanted none. Beyond the plunder of their willing bodies (and this very willingness made him look upon them with contempt), he thought of them, and cared for them, not at all. The groom, who had been warned of his master's mood and early approach, stood ready, holding the reins of the saddled stallion. Again the young man took no particular notice of his good fortune---that here was arguably the finest horse in the countryside, sleek and tireless, worth more in stud alone than many of the country folk could hope to earn in a lifetime. He knew only that it was his, and that this, at least, was as it should be. In a rare show of affection, he went so far as to pat its beautiful neck before mounting. But this did not keep him from upbraiding the groom for a loose strand on the saddle-blanket. And no sooner had he mounted the animal than it ceased to be for him a living creature, and became instead a vehicle, existing merely to carry him to a desired end. He rode off, leaving the groom to shake his head, and spit disparagingly in the dirt. Such was the love he inspired in men. Mary sat at the bare table, drinking tea and chewing a hard biscuit, while her mother peered narrowly out of the window. Both had been silent since waking---there seemed little left to say---but at last her mother broke the stillness. "Mary. What will you do if Stephen Purceville comes to call on you today?" Mary knew better than to ask why he would. So far as her mother was concerned, there was no such thing as coincidence. She thought for a moment, then replied honestly. "I don't know. He is, after all, my brother." "Half-brother," the old woman hissed. "And not the better half, remember that." The girl did not like, and could not understand, her mother's tone. "Margaret," she said flatly. "If you did not want us to meet, you would not have arranged his coming here. You show me one path, then chastise me for taking it. At least tell me what it is you want, so I can make an intelligent choice." "What I want," she repeated thoughtfully, as if regretting her earlier outburst. "For now all I want is that you should meet, and let nature take it's course."