"Of course, Arthur, I can't be sure what I'd do," she replied gently;
"but I hope I'd not be made altogether contemptible by inheriting a
little money."

"But it wouldn't seem contemptible," he retorted. "It'd be legal and
sensible, and it'd seem just. You'd only be obeying a dead father's last
wishes and guarding the interests of your husband and your children. They
come before brothers."

"But not before self-respect," she said very quietly. She put her arm
around his neck and pressed her cheek against his. "Arthur--dear--dear--"
she murmured, "please don't talk or think about this any more.
It--it--hurts." And there were hot tears in her eyes, and at her heart a
sense of sickness and of fright; for his presentation of the other side
of the case made her afraid of what she might do, or be tempted to do, in
the circumstances he pictured. She knew she wouldn't--at least, not so
long as she remained the person she then was. But how long would that be?
How many years of association with her new sort of friends--with the sort
Ross had long been--with the sort she was becoming more and more
like--how many, or, rather, how few years would it take to complete the
process of making her over into a person who would do precisely what
Arthur had pictured?

Arthur had said a great deal more than he intended--more, even, than he
believed true. For a moment he felt ashamed of himself; then he reminded
himself that he wasn't really to blame; that, but for his father's
harshness toward him, he would never have had such sinister thoughts
about him or Adelaide. Thus his apology took the form of an outburst
against Hiram. "Father has brought out the worst there is in me!" he