that peculiar smile that we fancy on the face of Homeric heroes--more
fell, and cruel, and terrible than even their own frown--just before
they leveled the spear. He laid his broad hand, corded across with a
net-work of tangled sinews, on the table before him, and the stout oak
creaked and trembled.

"If I were to strangle him," he said, "as I constantly feel tempted to
do, I believe I should deserve well of the state. But, with all that, I
don't like plotting against him under my own roof; it strikes me that is
a phase of hospitality not strictly Arabian. My mother laments over him
already as hardly dealt with. Then Uncle Henry is a great difficulty. He
is not in the least one of the light comedy fathers who, during two
acts, stamps about with many strange oaths and stormy denials, but in
the last yields to fate and _soubrettes_, says 'Bless you, my children!'
and hands out untold gold. There is no more appeal from his decisions
than from Major A----'s. He dislikes Bruce, of course; but he would just
as soon think of objecting to a partner at whist as to a son-in-law
because he happened to be unprepossessing. When the poor little
Iphigenia is sacrificed on the shrine of expediency, you will see him,
not veiling his face but taking snuff with the calm grace that is
peculiar to him. Arguing with such a man is a simple absurdity."

"I can not advise you," I answered, sadly; "but it seems hard on Miss
Raymond, too."

"Of course it is," Livingstone broke in; "and the worst of it is, the
poor child looks to me to help her. I can't bear to think of what her
life would be if she married Bruce. He would be constantly retaliating
on her for what he is suffering now--for he does suffer. A pleasant idea
that she, who is only meant to be petted, should be set up as a target