“You married me to her,” cried the Master bitterly. “For God’s sake, sir, remember that you thrust her on me before I was well out of petticoats.” The Viscount frowned. “I considered a Dalrymple able to manage a woman,” he said dryly. “And the marriage was very politic.” “I do not doubt it, my lord,” answered the Master passionately. “But do not blame me for a woman not of my choosing.” The father yawned. “I merely commented that she was tiresome,” he said. “And so are you at times—but she—is quite insufferable. I assure you this house with no other occupant but that sniveling woman is a miserable place. I cannot write here, I shall have my town house refurnished.” The Master of Stair rose. “I do not need you, my lord,” he said, still in that tone of passionate bitterness, “to point out the wretchedness of my home—it is a fact obvious enough, and by God you should not fling it in my face. I cannot remember that you ever, by one word, tried to mend the unhappiness—” “And I,” returned the Viscount, “cannot remember ever saying I had—it is your life”—he shrugged his shoulders—“I have managed my own—now I only ask to be left in peace. I am not fitted for the part of mentor and never essayed to fill it.” The Master of Stair laughed. “Peace!” he echoed with wild eyes on his father. “Did your lordship sow peace that you expect to reap it? Not in me, at least, not in me or mine!” The Viscount had picked up his book again. “Where is the third volume of Cicero?” he said. “I could not find it. You have the library of a careless man.” “The servants are at your lordship’s service,” answered the Master and turned on his heel, chafing. “You forget,” remarked his father, “it is New Year’s Eve, the season I believe of festivities, good-will and other such antique pleasantries, and I understand the servants are mostly abroad.” The Master gave a wild look round the gloomy room. “New Year’s Eve! We are spending it in an exemplary way!” he cried. “This place looks like good-will and festivity, does it not? How many homes look as gloomy as this to-night!” “Very few, I should imagine,” said the Viscount. “Will you bring me that book if you have it?” The Master gave him a bitter glance; before he could answer the entrance curtain was drawn aside and a lady entered, a gentleman behind her. She was wrapped in a long purple cloak, the hood drawn over her head. At sight of the Master of Stair she hesitated, and the man behind, slipping past her, came into the center of the room. He was blond, good-humored, elegant; he smiled delightfully as he bowed to the silent figure by the hearth. “Good-even, Sir John,” he said. “I have brought my lady back from Kensington.” “Good-even Mr. Wharton,” answered the Master, staring past him. The atmosphere was decidedly oppressive; the Viscount gave a malicious smile. Lady Dalrymple came forward in a heavy silence, but Tom Wharton knew no such word as embarrassment; he smiled still more good-humoredly.