things, and she chooses to treat her life as though it were a matter of
no consequence. She took a fifty to one chance at the bar, and she
nearly lost. But, by heaven, you should have seen her bring my little
boat down the creek, with the tide swelling, and a squall right down on
the top of us. It was magnificent. Cecil!"

"Well?"

"Why does Kate Caynsard treat her life as though it were of less value
than the mackerel she lowers her line for? Do you know?"

The younger man dropped his eyeglass and shrugged his shoulders
contemptuously.

"Since when," he demanded, "have I shown any inclination to play the
village Lothario? Thick ankles and robust health have never appealed to
me--I prefer the sicklier graces of civilization."

"Kate Caynsard," Andrew said thoughtfully, "is not of the villagers.
She leads their life, but her birth is better on her father's side, at
any rate, than our own."

"If I might be allowed to make the suggestion," Cecil said, regarding
his brother with supercilious distaste, "don't you think it would be
just as well to change your clothes before our guests arrive?"

"Why should I?" Andrea asked calmly.

"They are not my friends. I scarcely know even their names. I entertain
them at your request. Why should I be ashamed of my oilskins? They are
in accord with the life I live here. I make no pretence, you see,
Cecil," he added, with a faintly amused smile, "at being an ornamental
member of Society."

His brother regarded him with something very much like disgust.

"No!" he said sarcastically. "No one could accuse you of that."

Something in his tone seemed to suggest to Andrew a new idea. He looked
down at the clothes he wore beneath his oilskins--the clothes almost of
a working man. He glanced for a moment at his hands, hardened and
blistered with the actual toil which he loved--and he looked his
brother straight in the face.

"Cecil," he said, "I believe you're ashamed of me."

"Of course I am," the younger man answered brutally. "It's your own
fault. You choose to make a fisherman or a labouring man of yourself. I
haven't seen you in a decent suit of clothes for years. You won't dress
for dinner. Your hands and skin are like a ploughboy's. And, d--n it
all, you're my elder brother! I've got to introduce you to my friends
as the head of the De la Bornes, and practically their host. No wonder
I don't like it!"

There was a moment's silence. If his words hurt, Andrew made no sign.