She met his look with a flash of daring.  “I wish you luck,” she said.

He made her a bow.  “You are very generous.  But I scarcely expect any.  My star has not been in the ascendant for a long time.”

Scott uttered a laugh that sounded faintly derisive.  “You’ll have to make the best of the second best for once, my dear chap,” he said.  “You can’t always have your cake iced.”

Eustace glanced at him momentarily.  “I am not you, Stumpy,” he said.  “The philosophy of the second best is only for those who have never tasted the best.”

There was in his tone a touch of malice that caught Dinah very oddly, like the flick of a lash intended for another.  She awoke very suddenly to the realization of Scott sitting near Isabel with the light shining on his pale face and small, colourless beard.  How insignificant he looked!  And yet the narrow shoulders had an independent set about them as though they were not without a certain strength.

The smile still lingered about his lips as he made quiet rejoinder.  “It sometimes needs a philosopher to tell what is the best.”

Eustace gave an impatient shrug.  “The philosopher is not always a wise man,” he observed briefly.

“But seldom an utter fool,” returned Scott.

The elder brother’s face was contemptuous as he said, “A philosopher may recognize what is best, but it is seldom within his reach.”

“And so, being a philosopher, he does without it.”  Scott spoke thoughtfully; he was gazing straight before him.

Isabel suddenly leaned forward.  “He is not always the loser, Stumpy,” she said.

He looked at her.  “Certainly a man can’t lose what he has never had,” he said.

“Every man has his chance once,” she insisted.

“And—­if he’s a philosopher—­he doesn’t take it,” laughed Eustace.  “Don’t you know, my dear Isabel, that that is the very cream and essence of philosophy?”

She gave him a swift look that was an open challenge.  “What do you know of philosophy and the greater things of life?” she said.

He looked momentarily surprised.  Dinah saw the ready frown gather on his handsome face; but before he could speak Scott intervened.

“How on earth did we get onto this abstruse subject?” he said easily.  “Miss Bathurst will vote us all a party of bores, and with reason.  What were we talking about before?  Iced cake, wasn’t it?  Are you a cook Miss Bathurst?”

“I can make some kinds of cakes,” Dinah said modestly, “but I like making pastry best.  I often make sausage-rolls for Dad to take hunting.”

“That sounds more amusing for him than for you,” observed Eustace.

“Oh no, I love making them,” she assured him.  “And he always says he likes mine better than anyone’s.  But I’m not a particularly good cook really.  Mother generally does that part, and I do all the rest.”

“All?” said Isabel.