"You're wrong, Terry," said Vance. He kept his voice mild. "You're very
wrong. But I'm old enough not to take offense at what a young spitfire
says."

"I suppose you are," retorted Terry, in a tone which implied that he
himself would never reach that age.

"And when a few years run by," went on Vance, "you'll change your
viewpoint. In the meantime, my boy, let me give you this warning. No
matter what you think about me, it is Elizabeth who counts."

"Thanks. You need have no fear about my attitude to Aunt Elizabeth. You
ought to know that I love her, and respect her."

"Exactly. But you're headstrong, Terry. Very headstrong. And so is
Elizabeth. Take your own case. She took you into the family for the sake
of a theory. Did you know that?"

The boy stiffened. "A theory?"

"Quite so. She wished to prove that blood, after all, was more talk than
a vital influence. So she took you in and gave you an imaginary line of
ancestors with which you were entirely contented. But, after all, it has
been twenty-four years of theory rather than twenty-four years of Terry.
You understand?"

"It's a rather nasty thing to hear," said Terence huskily. "Perhaps
you're right. I don't know. Perhaps you're right."

"And if her theory is proved wrong--look out, Terry! She'll throw you out