"Dissolute English father--and Spanish mother of doubtful morals.
My poor Barry, your hands will be full."

"Our hands," he corrected.

"Our hands! Good heavens, the bare idea terrifies me!" She
shrugged tragically and was dumb until Mary came to announce
lunch.

Across the table she studied her nephew with an attention that she
was careful to conceal. She was used to his frequent coming and
going. Since the death of his mother he had travelled continually
and she was accustomed to his appearing more or less unexpectedly,
at longer or shorter intervals. They had always been great
friends, and it was to her house in London that he invariably went
first on returning to England--sure of his welcome, sure of
himself, gay, easy-going and debonair. She was deeply attached to
him. But, with something akin to terror, she had watched the
likeness to the older Barry Craven growing from year to year,
fearful lest the moral downfall of the father might repeat itself
in the son. The temptation to speak frankly, to warn, had been
great. Natural dislike of interference, and a promise given
reluctantly to her dying sister-in-law, had kept her silent. She
had loved the tall beautiful woman who had been her brother's wife
and a promise made to her was sacred--though she had often doubted
the wisdom of a silence that might prove an incalculable danger.
She respected the fine loyalty that demanded such a promise, but
her own views were more comprehensive. She was strong enough to
hold opinions that were contrary to accepted traditions. She