Burnett laughed heartlessly, hauling forth his apparel with a refined
cruelty which took careful heed of possible interfolded shoes or cravats.

"She married an Englishman when she was nineteen years old," he said.
"That was when they sent me to Eton that little while,—until I drove the
horse through the drug shop. The time I told you about, don’t you know?"

"Yes, I remember," said Jack. He observed with sickening distinctness that
the night had begun to fall, the river’s silver ribbon had become a black
snake, and that the mountain range beyond loomed chill and dark and
cheerless. "I guess I ought to be getting into my things," he said, moving
toward his own door.

"There’s a bath in here," his friend called after him. "We’re to divide
it."

"Sure," was the reply. It sounded a trifle thick.

"I don’t think that she ought to," said the brother to himself, as he
began to draw out his stick-pin before the mirror, "I don’t care if she is
my favorite sister—I don’t think that she ought to."

Then he went on to make ready for the securing of his half of the bath,
and forthwith forgot his sister and his friend.