"Nothing." She bit her under lip, furious with herself. The fog swallowed them up again in the narrow hedged-in road, and McTaggart tucked a hand through his companion's arm. "Tell me all about it," he said persuasively, "a worry only grows by being bottled up." She gave him a swift look from under her wet lashes, tempted by the sympathy which rang in his voice. "It's Stephen. That's all." "I thought so," his face was dark; "what's he been doing now? What a rotter the fellow is!" "It's not so much what he does," she pulled herself together and with a defiant gesture passed a hand across her eyes. "It's the fact of his being there, all day long ... it's difficult to explain. But I can't bear to see him, sitting in Father's chair, as if it were his by right, as though he were the master..." She broke off indignantly, her tears dried by anger, her smooth cheeks flushed, her hand unconsciously tightening on his arm. "It makes Roddy furious! Of course he's only a boy, but he's such an old dear,"--her love for her brother was plain. "If only Stephen would let him alone instead of teasing him! He treats him like a kid, with a 'Run away and play!' And no boy will stand that--in his own home too! And of course there are rows, and Mother takes _his_ side." "What--Stephen's?" McTaggart stared in surprise. "Rather! He can't do wrong--'poor dear Stephen'! And it's no good chiming in, it only makes things worse. For if I do Mother says it's because ... I'm jealous." The little break in her voice showed how deep the shaft had sped. "Poor old girl"--McTaggart pressed her arm. "It's jolly rough on you--I'd like to kick the chap! He's a regular parasite; he can't support himself, and he's always hanging around sponging on his friends." But Jill was following out her own line of thought. "And I'm not jealous, Peter--not in that mean way. But since Father died I've got to think of Roddy. It's not that Mother isn't really fond of him, but she doesn't understand or see he's growing up. She's always so busy with all this Suffrage work, and Stephen eggs her on. She's no time for home. We never seem to have her now for a second to ourselves without Stephen in the background like a sort of household spy!" "What excuse does he give for haunting the place? He's no relation of yours, by any chance?" "Thank Heaven, no!" She gave a shaky laugh. "Why, we only know him since Father died. He was Secretary to a branch of the Woman's Suffrage League. Mrs. Braid, you know, took Mother to a meeting, and then she got keen on the movement herself. I was pleased at the time because it seemed to rouse her. She simply collapsed after Father's death, and anything seemed better than to see her lying there, caring for nothing, utterly crushed.