"Well?" said Harry, lighting a cigarette and seating himself on
the arm of a chair.

"You have often thought," I continued, "that I have been trying
to interfere with your freedom. But you are mistaken; I have
merely been trying to preserve it--and I have succeeded."

"When our father and mother died you were fifteen years of age.
You are now twenty-two; and I take some credit for the fact that
those seven years have left no stain, however slight, on the name
of Lamar."

"Do I deserve that?" cried Harry. "What have I done?"

"Nothing irremediable, but you must admit that now and then I
have been at no small pains to--er--assist you. But there, I
don't intend to speak of the past; and to tell the truth, I
suspect that we are of one mind. You regard me as more or less of
an encumbrance; you think your movements are hampered; you
consider yourself to be treated as a child unjustly.

"Well, for my part, I find my duty--for such I consider it--grows
more irksome every day. If I am in your way, you are no less in
mine. To make it short, you are now twenty-two years old, you
chafe at restraint, you think yourself abundantly able to manage
your own affairs. Well--I have no objection."

Harry stared at me.