‘Privileged young man! He seems to me, like most cousins, to make the most of his advantages.’ ‘What do you mean?’ asked Nita. ‘He takes every opportunity of lecturing you. And you—well, you are consistent, I must own; you do tell him very plainly what you think of him.’ ‘Of course I do! and as for John’s lectures, I am accustomed to them by now. They mean nothing, except that we are great friends—more than cousins; in fact, brother and sister.’ ‘And how long, if I may ask, has the fraternity been superadded to the cousinship—and the friendship? It makes a complicated relationship.’ ‘It never was superadded. It has always existed—for me.’ ‘Always?’ echoed Jerome, vaguely displeased. ‘Yes, of course. I am nineteen, and John is twenty-eight. When I was born, we lived at Burnham, and so did the Leyburns. Uncle Leyburn married papa’s only sister, and was his greatest friend. They lived at Burnham too, then. John was nine years old then, of course. The first, or one of the very first things I can remember, is his showing me pictures of birds—he is mad about birds, you know—and taking me by the hand for a little walk, and playing with me in general. I suppose I was about three years old then.’ ‘And Leyburn twelve. He was that age when I knew him, sixteen years ago. They had just come to Abbot’s Knoll. Yet I do not remember his ever saying anything about you. Perhaps you occupied a smaller place in his heart than you imagine.’ ‘Oh no!’ said Nita, with calm conviction. ‘He never talks much about things. He would not be likely to talk about me. He always gives his mind to what he is doing at the moment; and when he was playing and learning lessons with you, he would not talk about me. Besides, we were still at Burnham. But he was always kind when he came back to me. John taught me to read, and implanted in my mind that love of light literature which he now pretends to deplore—the great humbug!’ Nita laughed a pleased little laugh, speaking of a tender affection for the absent ‘humbug.’ The course which the conversation had taken grew less and less pleasing to Jerome. He felt a strong desire to displace John from his pedestal, or at least to make him, in vulgar parlance, ‘step down a peg or two.’ A spirit of perverse folly took possession of him. Leaning a little forward, and speaking in a discreetly low voice, mindful of the groom who sat behind, he rested his elbow on his knee, and fixed his eyes on Nita’s face, saying: ‘Then he has never given you cause to suppose that a sister’s affection would hold a secondary place in his thoughts?’ ‘You speak ambiguously,’ replied Nita, occupied in guiding her horses through a very narrow lane. ‘Sister’s affection—secondary place! I do not understand.’ ‘Are sisters jealous when their brothers marry?’