"Meanwhile," said Master Godolphin whettingly, "will you not essay your
rover's prowess upon me?"

"You?" quoth Sir Oliver, and looked him over with good-humoured
contempt. "I'm no butcher of fledgelings, my lad. Besides, you are
your sister's brother, and 'tis no aim of mine to increase the
obstacles already in my path." Then his tone changed. He leaned
across the table. "Come, now, Peter. What is at the root of all this
matter? Can we not compose such differences as you conceive exist?
Out with them. 'Tis no matter for Sir John. He's a curmudgeon who
signifies not a finger's snap. But you, 'tis different. You are her
brother. Out with your plaints, then. Let us be frank and friendly."

"Friendly?" The other sneered again. "Our fathers set us an example
in that."

"Does it matter what our fathers did? More shame to them if, being
neighbours, they could not be friends. Shall we follow so deplorable
an example?"

"You'll not impute that the fault lay with my father," cried the other,
with a show of ready anger.

"I impute nothing, lad. I cry shame upon them both."

"'Swounds!" swore Master Peter. "Do you malign the dead?"

"If I do, I malign them both. But I do not. I no more than condemn a
fault that both must acknowledge could they return to life."