figure sprawled in the chair near her, then looked back at the
fire with pursed lips and wrinkled forehead, and rumpled her hair
more thoroughly than before.

"My dear boy," she said at last soberly, "you resemble my unhappy
brother altogether too much for my peace of mind."

He winced. Her words probed the still raw wound. But unaware of
the appositeness of her remark Miss Craven continued thoughtfully,
still staring into the fire:

"The Supreme Sculptor, when He made me, denied me the good looks
that are proverbial in our family--but in compensation he endowed
me with a solid mind to match my solid body. The Family means a
great deal to me, Barry--more than anybody has ever realised--and
there are times when I wonder why the solidity of mind was given
to the one member of the race who could not perpetuate it in the
direct line." She sighed, and then as if ashamed of unwonted
emotion, jerked her dishevelled grey head with a movement that was
singularly reminiscent of her nephew. Craven flushed.

"You're the best man of the family, Aunt Caro."

"So your mother used to say--poor child." Her voice softened
suddenly. She got up restlessly and resumed her former position
before the fire, her hands back in the pockets of her mannish
coat.

"What about your plans, Barry? What are you going to do?" she said
briskly, with an evident desire to avoid further moralising. He