"Well?" A mention of Terence and his welfare always disarmed her
completely. She opened her eyes and her heart and smiled at her brother.

"There's no set of Scott in the house. I'm going to give Terry one."

"Do you think he'll ever read the novels? I never could. That antiquated
style, Vance, keeps me at arm's length."

"A stiff style because he wrote so rapidly. But there's the greatest body
and bone of character. Except for his heroes. Terry reminds me of them,
in a way. No thought, not very much feeling, but a great capacity for
physical action."

"I think you'd like to be Terry's adviser," she said.

"I wouldn't aspire to the job," yawned Vance, "unless I could ride well
and shoot well. If a man can't do that, he ceases to be a man in Terry's
eyes. And if a woman can't talk pure English, she isn't a woman."

"That's because he's young," said Elizabeth.

"It's because he's a prig," sneered Vance. He had been drawn farther into
the conversation than he planned; now he retreated carefully. "But
another year or so may help him."

He retreated before she could answer, but he left her thoughtful, as he
hoped to do. He had a standing theory that the only way to make a woman
meditate is to keep her from talking. And he wanted very much to make
Elizabeth meditate the evil in the son of Black Jack. Otherwise all his