"He brought us into the world," Arthur pursued. "He has accustomed us to
a certain station--to a certain way of living. It's his duty in honesty
and in honor to do everything in his power to keep us there."

Del admitted to herself that this was plausible, but she somehow felt
that it was not true. "It seems to me that if parents bring their
children up to be the right sort--useful and decent and a credit," said
she, "they've done the biggest part of their duty. The money isn't so
important, is it? At least, it oughtn't to be."

Arthur looked at her with angry suspicion. "Suppose he made a will giving
it all to you, Del," he said, affecting the manner of impartial,
disinterested argument, "what would _you_ do?"

"Share with you, of course," she answered, hurt that he should raise the
question at a time when raising it seemed an accusation of her, or at
least a doubt of her.

He laughed satirically. "That's what you think now," said he. "But, when
the time came, you'd be married to Ross Whitney, and he'd show you how
just father's judgment of me was, how wicked it would be to break his
last solemn wish and will, and how unfit I was to take care of money. And
you'd see it; and the will would stand. Oh, you'd see it! I know human
nature. If it was a small estate--in those cases brothers and sisters
always act generously--no, not always. Some of 'em, lots of 'em, quarrel
and fight over a few pieces of furniture and crockery. But in a case of
a big estate, who ever heard of the one that was favored giving up his
advantage unless he was afraid of a scandal, or his lawyers advised him
he might as well play the generous, because he'd surely lose the suit?"