It was the McDermott way, this. A kiss on the hand and a compliment to
Madam Ravenel; a compliment and a kiss on the lips to Peggy of the
Poplars; but in his heart it was to the deil with all women--save
one--for he regarded them as emotional liars to be sported with and
forgotten.

As Mrs. Ravenel presented to each other these two men whose lives were
to be interwoven for so many years, they shook hands cordially enough,
but there was both criticism and appraisement in the first glance each
took of the other.

The contrast between them, as they stood with clasped hands, did not
pass unnoted by Mrs. Ravenel. The black hair, olive skin, the bluer than
blue eyes of Dermott, as he stood in the light of the doorway; his
alert, theatric, dominating personality; his superb self-consciousness;
the decision of manner which comes only to those who have achieved,
seemed to her prejudiced gaze admirable in themselves, but more
admirable as a foil to the warm brown of Frank's hair, to the poetic
gray of his eyes, his apparent self-depreciation, his easy acceptances,
and his elegant reluctance to obtrude on others either his views or his
personality.

Perhaps it was the prescience of coming trouble between them which
caused a noticeable pause after the introduction--a pause which Dermott
courteously broke.

"So this is the son," he said. "Sure," he went on, comparing them,
"ye've a right to be proud of each other! Ye make a fine couple, the two
of you. And now"--putting his cap, gloves, and riding-whip on the