‘Oh, in money-matters, yes. But my mother died just when he hoped to give her everything she desired—and more. And he was—he was very fond of her.’ ‘I see! I might have understood that,’ replied Jerome; and then, after a pause, ‘Mr. Bolton has been making very kind offers to me.’ ‘Has he? What manner of offers?’ He told her. ‘Do you call that a kind offer?’ cried Nita impatiently, as her face flushed. ‘How could he suggest such a thing? Oh, really, how hard men can be!’ ‘Perhaps you think he should at once have placed the half of his possessions at my disposal. Is it not better to be “hard,” as you call it, than an idiot?’ ‘Well, I suppose it is. But life is such a mystery.’ ‘As how—I mean how exemplified in my case?’ Nita laughed with a little embarrassment. ‘I never can explain things. But it is a mystery. You a clerk! What an idea! You must feel it to be absurd, yourself, don’t you?’ ‘I have not thought much about it. It has to be done. ‘“When land is gone and money spent,” you know.’ ‘Pray what would your _sister_ say to it?’ ‘Avice? Well, really, I don’t suppose she has any clear ideas as to what clerks are, or do. If I told her I was going to be a tailor, she would think it all right if I said so.’ ‘Is she that kind of a sister?’ ‘Yes,’ said Jerome, in perfect good faith. He imagined indeed that Avice was that kind of a sister; essentially the right kind of sister. Women ought all to be like that—blind to the faults of those they loved—when ‘those’ were men. The men to work, the women to admire; the workers to rule, the admirers to submit. It was a beautiful arrangement. ‘I daresay it is very nice in her to be like that,’ said Nita, ‘but if I had had a brother, I should not have been that kind of a sister at all. I should have told him very plainly what I thought of his doings, and if I imagined that he was degrading himself, I should have told him that too.’ ‘Would you, at the same time, have provided him with the means of acting up to what you considered a higher standard?’ ‘It is a _shame_!’ Nita burst out almost passionately, after a pause. How naïvely she showed her interest, Jerome thought, with a little sense of pleased, flattered self-complacency. How delightfully natural she was—and what a curious contrast to that woman whose proud lips had already confessed her love for him: to Sara Ford! His heart suddenly throbbed as he thought of her. Dangerous thought! He must not indulge in it, and accordingly, to turn the conversation, he said: ‘You have singular ideas on the subject of brothers and sisters, possibly because the relation is purely a matter of speculation to you.’ ‘Oh no, it isn’t. Jack is my brother.’ ‘John Leyburn?’ he asked, with a feeling of surprise that was not altogether pleasant. Sooth to say, he had forgotten Leyburn for the moment, and here he was suddenly cropping up again in a manner that was obtrusive—thrusting himself in where he was not in the least wanted. ‘John Leyburn—yes.’