There was a faltering note, however, in this profession. Why should she like Ralph better than all the friends in the world? He was her brother, that was true; but he knew very little of Lucy, and Lucy knew next to nothing of him; he had been gone since she was almost a child--he came back now with a big beard and a loud voice and a step which rang through the house. It was evident he thought her, if not a child, yet the most unimportant feminine person who did not count; and why should she prefer him to her own nice friends, who were soft of voice and soft of step, and made much of her, and thought as she did? It is acknowledged universally that in certain circumstances, when the man is her lover, a girl prefers that man to all the rest of the creation; but why, when it is only your brother Raaf, and it may really be said that you don’t know him--why should you prefer him to your own beloved friends? Lucy did not ask herself this question--she said what she knew it was the right thing to say, though with a faltering in her voice. And Ralph, who fortunately did not care in the least, took no notice of what Lucy said. He liked the little girl, his little sister, well enough; but it did not upset the equilibrium of the world in the very least whether she preferred him or not--if he had thought on the subject he would probably have said, “More shame to her, the little insensible thing!” but he did not take the trouble to give it a passing thought. “I’ve got to show Bertram the neighborhood,” he said; “let him see we’re not all muffs or clowns in the country. He has a kind of notion that is about what the English aborigines are--and I daresay it’s true, more or less.” “Oh, Raaf!” cried Lucy, raising her little smooth head. “Well, it’s natural enough. One doesn’t meet the cream of the cream in foreign parts; unless you’re nothing but a sportsman, or a great swell doing it as the right thing, the most of the fellows you meet out there are loafers or blackguards, more or less.” “It is a pity to form an estimate from blackguards,” said Mrs. Wradisley, with a smile; “but that, I suppose, I may take as an exaggeration too. We don’t see much of that kind here. Mr. Bertram is much mistaken if he thinks--” “Oh, don’t be too hasty, mother,” said Ralph. “We know the breed; our respectable family has paid toll to the devil like other folks since it began life, which is rather a long time ago. After a few hundred years you get rather proud of your black sheep. I’m something of the kind myself,” he added, in his big voice. Mrs. Wradisley once more let the knitting drop in her lap. “You do yourself very poor justice, Raaf--no justice at all, in fact. You are not spotless, perhaps, but I hope that black--” “Whitey-brown,” said her son. “I don’t care for the distinction; but one white flower is perhaps enough in a family that never went in for exaggerated virtue--eh? Ah, yes--I know.”