“Difference? I should think it would make a difference. As it happens, I know P----, the woman he is going to marry. She makes no secret of it that grown-up sons and daughters shouldn’t live at home. I shall have to leave, whatever happens; and Lottie--well, in one way Lottie has more need to leave than I have: I shouldn’t mind her manners and that sort of thing--but Lottie does mind.” “Very naturally,” said the Minor Canon. “Perhaps,” said Law; “but I don’t know where she gets her ideas from, for we never were so very fine. However, I might stand it, but Lottie never will be able to stand it; and the question follows, what is she to do? For myself, as I say, I could ’list, and there would be an end of the matter.” “But in that case you would not be of much use to your sister.” Law shrugged his shoulders. “I should be of use to myself, which is the first thing. And then, you know--but perhaps you don’t know--all this is obstinacy on Lottie’s part, for she might be as well off as anyone. She might, if she liked, instead of wanting help, be able to help us all. She might start me for somewhere or other, or even make me an allowance, so that I could get into the army in the right way. When I think of what she is throwing away it makes me furious; she might make my fortune if she liked--and be very comfortable herself, too.” “And how is all this to be done?” said the Minor Canon somewhat tremulously, with a half-fantastic horror in his mind of some brutal alternative that might be in Lottie’s power, some hideous marriage or sacrifice of the conventional kind. He waited for Law’s answer in more anxiety than he had any right to feel, and Law on his side had a gleam of righteous indignation in his eyes, and for the moment felt himself the victim of a sister’s cruelty, defrauded by her folly and unkindness of a promotion which was his due. “Look here,” he said solemnly; “all this she could do without troubling herself one bit, if she chose; she confessed it to me herself. The Signor has made her an offer to bring her out as a singer, and to teach her himself first for nothing. That is to say, of course, she would pay him, I suppose, when he had finished her, and she had got a good engagement. You know they make loads of money, these singers--and she has got as fine a voice as any of them. Well, now, fancy, Mr. Ashford, knowing that she could set us all up in this way, and give me a thorough good start--she’s refused; and after that she goes and talks about me!” For a moment Mr. Ashford was quite silenced by this sudden assault. A bold thrust is not to be met by fine definitions, and for the first moment the Minor Canon was staggered. Was there not some natural justice in what the lout said? Then he recovered himself. “But,” he said, “there are a great many objections to being a singer.” He was a little inarticulate, the sudden attack having taken away his breath. “A lady might well have objections; and the family might have objections.”