"You consider also that she will be honoured in marrying a Brammerton?" "Look here," he answered, a little irritated, "what's all this damned catechising for?" "I am simply asking questions, Harry; taking liberties seeing I am a Brammerton and your little brother," I retorted calmly. "And nasty questions they are, too;--but, by Jove! since you ask, and, as I am a Brammerton, and it is I she is going to marry,--why! I consider she _is_ honoured. The honour will be,--ah! on both sides, George. Now,--dear fellow,--don't worry about my feelings. If you have anything more to ask, why! shoot it over, now that I am in the mood for answering," he continued dryly. "I have a hide like a rhino'." I looked him over coldly. "Yes, Harry,--Lady Rosemary _will_ come to you as a Granton, fulfilling the pledge made by her father. She will come to you with her honour bright and unsullied." He bent forward and frowned at me. "Do you doubt it?" he shot across. I shook my head. "No!" He resumed his old position. "Glad to hear you say so. Now,--what else? Blest if this doesn't make me feel quite a devil, to be lectured and questioned by my young brother,--my own, dear, little, preaching, farmer, kid of a brother." "You will go to her a Brammerton, fulfilling the vow made by a Brammerton, with a Brammerton's honour, unstained, unblemished,--'Clean,--within and without'?" He rose slowly from the chest and faced me squarely. There was nothing of the coward in Harry. His eye glistened with a cruel light. "Have a care, little brother," he said between his regular, white teeth. "Have a care." "Why, Harry," I remonstrated in feigned surprise, "what's the matter? What have I said amiss?" He had always played the big, patronising, bossing brother with me and I had suffered it from him, although, from a physical standpoint, the suffering of late had been one of good-natured tolerance. To-day, there was something in my manner that told him he had reached the end of it. "Tell me what you mean?" he snarled. "If you do not know what I mean, brother mine, sit down and I will tell you." "No!" he answered. "Oh, well!--I'll tell you anyway." I went up close to him. "What are you going to do about Peggy Darrol?" I demanded. The shot hit hard; but he was almost equal to it. He sat down on the chest again and toyed once more with the point of the rapier. Then, without looking up, he answered: "Peggy Darrol,--eh, George! Peggy Darrol, did you say? Who the devil is she? Oh,--ah,--eh,--oh, yes! the blacksmith's sister,--um,--nice little wench, Peggy:--attractive, fresh, clinging, strawberries and cream and all that sort of thing. Bit of a dreamer, though!" "Who set her dreaming?" I asked, pushing my anger back. "Hanged if I know; born in her I suppose. It is part of every woman's make-up. Pretty little thing, though; by Gad! she is." "Yes! she is pretty; and she was good as she is pretty until she got tangled up with you."