barrier were there. And it was because he did so that Deb, who could
not slap him for it, slapped Ruby sometimes, and called her a brat, and
would not have her asked to Redford for the holidays; thereby giving
occasion to envious Alice Urquhart for that warning to Guthrie
Carey not to trust his baby to her.

There was still another lover present--the favoured lover. He sat with
Alice near the piano where Francie and her governess were playing
duets, listening without listening to his companion's jerky talk--
those pathetic attempts to attract him which so many second-rate girls
were not too proud to make obvious to his keen apprehension. Claud
Dalzell's distinction was that he was the most polished young man of
his social circle. He had had all the advantages that money could give
and in addition, was naturally refined and handsome. To hear Claud
Dalzell read poetry, or sing German folk-songs to his own graceful
accompaniment, was to make a poet of the listener; to dance with him
was pure enchantment (to another good dancer); he was the best horseman
in the land; and if his present host could not appreciate his many
charms--except perhaps the last named--others did. The whole race of
girls, more or less, fell down and worshipped him.

He sat with Alice Urquhart because he could not sit with Deborah; or
rather, because he would not condescend to share her with that
"t'penny-ha'penny mate of a tramp cargo boat", as he styled Guthrie
Carey, whom she had made happy at last. She had rescued him from her
father's clutches; she had called him to a chair beside her, where
there was no room for a third chair. Her glistening skirt flowed over
his modest toes. Her firm, round arm, flung along the chair arm between
them, made him feel like Peter Ibbotson before the Venus of Milo--it
was so perfect a piece of human sculpture. She lay back, slowly fanning