“I never knew rightly who Mrs. Arden was,” said Arthur; “a foreigner, I believe, or at least a stranger to the county. I don’t think I should like my eldest son to be so unlike me if I were a married man.” “Mr. Arden, I don’t pretend to understand your meaning; but if you wish to be offensive perhaps our acquaintance had better end at once,” said Edgar, “I have no desire to quarrel with my heir.” Another pause followed, during which the dark countenance of the other Arden fluctuated for a moment between darkness and light. Then it suddenly brightened all over with that smile for which the Ardens were famous. “Your heir!” he said. “You are half a lifetime younger than I am, and much more likely to be my heir--if I had anything to leave. And I don’t want to be offensive. I am a bitter beggar; I can’t help myself. If you were as poor as I am, and saw a healthy boy cutting you out of everything--land, money, consideration, life----” “Don’t say so,” cried open-hearted Edgar, forgetting his offence; “on the contrary, if I can do anything to make life more tolerable--more agreeable---- I am just as likely to die as any one,” he continued, with a half comic sense that this must be consolatory to his new acquaintance; “and I have my sister to think of, who in that case would want a friend. Why should not we be of mutual use to each other? I now; you perhaps hereafter----” “By Jove!” cried the other, looking at him keenly. And then he drank off a large glass of claret, as if he required the strength it would give. “You are the strangest fellow I ever met.” “I don’t think so,” said Edgar, laughing. “Nothing so remarkable; but I hope we shall know each other better before long. There is not much attraction just now in the country, but in September, if you will come to Arden----” “Do you know Miss Arden can’t bear me?” said his new friend. “Can’t bear you!” Edgar faltered as he spoke--for as soon as his unwary lips had uttered the invitation he remembered what Clare had said. “Yes; your sister hates me,” said Arthur Arden. “I cannot tell why, I am sure. I suppose because my father and yours fought like cat and dog--or like near relations if you choose, which answers quite as well. I am not at all sure that he did not send you abroad to be out of our way. He believed us capable of poisoning you--or--any other atrocity,” he added, with a little harsh laugh. “And are you?” said Edgar, laughing too, though with no great heart. “I don’t think I shall try,” said his new kinsman. “My father is dead, and one is less courageous than two. By Jove! just think what a difference it would make. Here am I, a poor wretch, living from hand to mouth, not knowing one year where my next year’s living is to come from, or sometimes where my next dinner is to come from, for that matter. If ever one man had an inducement to hate another, you may imagine it is I.”