read, Jack Wentworth, who
was not easily discomposed, grew red and restless. He had not dictated
it certainly, nor even suggested the wording of the epistle; but it was
he who, half in scorn and half in pity of the vagabond's terrors, had
reassured Wodehouse, and convinced him that it was only the punishments
of public opinion which the Curate could bring upon him. Hardened as
Jack was, he could not but be conscious that thus to stand in his
brother's way was a shabby business enough, and to feel that he himself
and his protege cut a very poor figure in presence of the manful old
Squire with all his burdens, and of Frank, who had, after all, nothing
to explain which was not to his honour. Notwithstanding that he was at
the present moment his brother's adversary, actually working against him
and prolonging his difficulties, an odd kind of contempt and indignation
against the fools who could doubt Frank's honour possessed the prodigal
at the moment. "A parcel of asses," he said to himself; and so stood and
listened to Wodehouse's little note of defiance, which, but for his
prompting, the sullen vagabond would never have dared to send to his
former protector. The letter itself was as follows:--

"I have consulted my friends about what you said to-day, and they tell
me it is d----d nonsense. You can't do me any harm; and I don't mean
to get myself into any scrape for you. You can do what you like--I
shan't take any notice. Your love affairs are no business of
mine.--Yours truly,

"T. WODEHOUSE"

Mr Wentworth threw the miserable scrawl on the table. "The fellow is a
scoundrel," said the Squire; "he does not seem to have a spark of
gratitude. You've done a deal too much for him already; and if the
sister is as old as Dora--" he continued, after a long pause, with a
half-humorous relaxation of his features. He was too much worn out to
smile.

"Yes," said the Curate. The young man was sensible of a sudden flush
and heat, but did not feel any inclination to smile. Matters were very
serious just then with Frank Wentworth. He was about to shake himself
free of one vexation, no doubt; but at this moment, when Lucy
Wodehouse was homeless and helpless, he had nothing to offer her, nor
any prospects even which he dared ask her to share with him. This was
no time to speak of the other sister, who was not as old as Miss Dora.
He was more than ever the Perpetual Curate now. Perhaps, being a
clergyman, he ought not to have