"I believe I'm called 'the young squire' already," replied Everard airily. "But what about the rest of us?" objected Dulcie. "Oh, I'd look after you, of course! The heir always does something for the younger ones. You needn't be afraid on that score!" Everard's tone was magnanimous and patronizing in the extreme. He was gazing at the house with an air of evident proprietorship. Dulcie, who had never considered the question before, revolved it carefully in her youthful brain for a moment or two; then she ventured a comment. "Wouldn't it be fairer to divide it?" "Nonsense, Dulcie!" put in Lilias. "You don't understand. Properties like this are never divided. They always go, just as they are, to the eldest son. You couldn't chop them up into pieces, or there'd be no estate left." "Couldn't one have the house and the other the wood, and another the park?" "Much good the house would do anybody without the estate to keep it up!" grunted Everard. "Dulcie, you're an utter baby. I don't believe you ever see farther than the end of your silly little nose. You may be glad you've got a brother to take care of you." "But haven't I as much right here as you?" persisted Dulcie obstinately. "No, you haven't; the heir always has the best right to everything. Cheer up! When the place is mine, I mean to have a ripping time here! I'll make things hum, I can tell you--ask my friends down, and you girls shall help to entertain. I've planned it all out. I suppose I shall have to go to Cambridge first, but I'll enjoy myself there too--you bet! On the whole I think I was born under a lucky star! Hallo! there goes Astley; I want to speak to him." Everard whistled to the groom, and ran down the garden, leaving his sisters to return to the house. At seventeen he was a fair, handsome, dashing sort of boy, of a type more common thirty years ago than at present. He held closely to the old-fashioned ideas of privileges of birth, and, according to modern notions, had contracted some false ideals of life. He had lounged through school without attempting to work, and was depending for all his future upon what should be left him by the industry of others. All the same, in spite of his attitude of "top dog" in the family, he was attractive, and inclined to be generous. Like most boys of seventeen, he had reached the "swollen head" stage, and imagined himself of vastly greater importance than he really was. The sobriquet of "the young squire" pleased his fancy, and he meant to live up to what he considered were the traditions of so distinguished a title. CHAPTER II A Stolen Joy-ride