It touched her shrewdly. More than once she had felt that Terry was on
the verge of becoming a complacent prig. So she countered with a sharp
thrust.

"You have to remember that you're a Westerner born and bred, my dear. A
very Westerner yourself!"

"Birth is an accident--birthplaces, I mean," smiled Terence. "It's the
blood that tells."

"Terry, you're a snob!" exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth.

"I hope not," he answered. "But look yonder, now!"

Old George Armstrong's daughter, Nelly, had gone up a tree like a
squirrel and was laughing down through the branches at a raw-boned cousin
on the ground beneath her.

"And what of it?" said Elizabeth. "That girl is pretty enough to please
any man; and she's the type that makes a wife."

Terry rubbed his chin with his knuckles thoughtfully. It was the one
family habit that he had contracted from Vance, much to the irritation of
the latter.

"After all," said Terry, with complacency, "what are good looks with bad
grammar?"

Elizabeth snorted literally and most unfemininely.