"Oh, backs him stoutly. Keeps all his loose change in the Norquay Trust. Believes Grove is launched on a wonderful career. Maybe he is. But I don't think our beloved brother has the necessary grip for that sort of career. He loves power; he's the chesty sort. He revels in big affairs. And I don't think he really knows what power consists of, nor how skilfully and wisely to direct affairs." "Did you ever like Grove, or trust him?" Rod asked bluntly. "Did you ever get on with him?" "No." Phil answered as bluntly. "I wouldn't admit it to any one but you, old kid. But I don't. I never did. I never will. We'll always be secretly at odds in everything." "Same here. I wonder why?" Rod uttered reflectively. "Suppose we're subconsciously resentful--jealous because he's first and entitled to the lion's share?" "No, no. Nothing so petty. It's fundamental. Grove looks like us. But he _isn't_ like us, only outside. Inside he's different. They can talk all they damn please about heredity, environment, cultural influences. They don't account for some people. Grove's a snob at heart. He's gross. He's a fairly clever--or cunning--good-looking healthy animal, with a purely animal psychology under a veneer of good manners. And I suppose one should view him with a degree of tolerance, because he was certainly born what he is. But one doesn't like that type of man as the chief representative of one's family." "And you think the governor fondly imagines Grove is quite a decent sort and plays the game like a gentleman--a bit masterfully, but still according to Hoyle?" Rod mused. "Absolutely." Phil frowned. "To me, that's the devil of it. He's honest, the governor is, and a bit old-fashioned in some notions. And he's fairly tolerant and pretty blind to certain obvious defects of character close home. The fact is, old kid, he's rather proud of his three sons. He'd wink at almost anything one of us did--in reason. And Grove comes first. He simply can't see Grove with critical eyes. It's quite natural, Rod." Rod would have pursued the subject farther, but there now approached them in a body, where they sat dangling their legs over the _Haida's_ cabin, their male house guests armed with gear for salmon fishing at the upper narrows. That evening, as they drew clear of a nook in Stuart Island at slack water, a long, lean, cruising yacht, canopied, mahogany tenders shining in boat chocks on deck, her bow wave curling out with a hissing sound, swept by the _Haida_. Young Deane's eyes followed her enviously. "Classy packet that," he said to Rod. "I was out on her a couple of week-ends. She's a dream inside. Fast, too; shows her heels to everything in Vancouver Harbor."