to me--I prefer the sicklier graces of civilization."

"Kate Caynsard," Andrew said thoughtfully, "is not of the villagers.
She leads their life, but her birth is better on her father's side,
at any rate, than our own."

"If I might be allowed to make the suggestion," Cecil said,
regarding his brother with supercilious distaste, "don't you think
it would be just as well to change your clothes before our guests
arrive?"

"Why should I?" Andrea asked calmly.

"They are not my friends. I scarcely know even their names. I
entertain them at your request. Why should I be ashamed of my
oilskins? They are in accord with the life I live here. I make no
pretence, you see, Cecil," he added, with a faintly amused smile,
"at being an ornamental member of Society."

His brother regarded him with something very much like disgust.

"No!" he said sarcastically. "No one could accuse you of that."

Something in his tone seemed to suggest to Andrew a new idea. He
looked down at the clothes he wore beneath his oilskins--the clothes
almost of a working man. He glanced for a moment at his hands,
hardened and blistered with the actual toil which he loved--and he
looked his brother straight in the face.

"Cecil," he said, "I believe you're ashamed of me."