But Murchison, the more level-headed of the two, looked at her very fixedly, as he said, "But you are Irish, too. How is it that you have learned to control your feelings so successfully?" At such a direct question, he would have expected her to flush a little; at any rate, show some slight symptoms of embarrassment. But this remarkably self-possessed girl of twenty or thereabouts was as cool as a cucumber. She laughed her little silvery laugh. "My brother and I are as wide apart as the North and South Poles," she said lightly. "Many people have commented on the fact. Would you like to know the reason?" She directed a rather challenging glance in the direction of Pomfret, whom she rightly judged to be more susceptible to feminine influence than his friend. "I should like to very much," was the subaltern's answer. That eloquent glance had completely subjugated the young man. "Well, listen. My father was a hard-riding, gambling, hard-drinking Irish squire, who squandered his money and left little but debts behind him. My brother takes after him in certain qualities, thank Heaven not his least desirables ones. My mother was an Englishwoman, rather a puritanical sort of woman, who fell in love, perhaps a little injudiciously, and I think wore her life out in the attempt to curb my father's unhappy propensities. I take after my mother. You understand? George is really my half-brother by my father's first wife." Pomfret nodded his head gravely. "I quite understand," he said, and his tone was one of conviction. Murchison preserved a benevolent attitude of neutrality. He was still thinking it all out. Miss Burton was very pretty, nay, more than pretty, very charming, very attractive, gifted with a marvellous self-possession, very clever, very adroit. But was she as genuine and frank as she seemed? Pomfret evidently thought so, but Murchison was not quite sure. Mr George Burton, who took after his Irish father in several respects, according to his sister's account, made a re-appearance before the visitors left. There had been just a little suspicion at first that he had been indulging in the hard-drinking habits of his male parent. If so, that suspicion must be at once removed. He was bright, breezy and blusterous, but he was certainly master of himself. He advanced with the most cordial air. "Gentlemen, I feel I owe you an apology. I had no right to intrude my private grievances upon you, even although I am very possessed with them. Please put it down to my Irish temperament. You will forgive me, I am sure." He stretched out appealing hands, the hands of the plebeian as Murchison was quick to notice, nails bitten to the quick, coarse fingers and thumbs. Murchison quietly ignored the outstretched hand. So did Pomfret, subjugated as he was with the charm and attractiveness of Miss Burton. He did not quite feel that he wanted to shake hands with this very terrible brother, who took after his Irish father.