—­“For even the blind distinguisheth
      The king with his robe and crown;
    But only the humble eye of faith
    Beholdeth Jesus of Nazareth
      In the beggar’s tattered gown.

    “I saw Him not in the mendicant
      And I heeded not his cry;
    Now Christ in His infinite mercy grant
      That the prayer I say in my day of want,
    Be not in scorn put by.”

No; he had never known her to be unkind, uncharitable, unforgiving; he had never known her to be insincere, untruthful, or envious.  But the decalogue is no stronger than its weakest link.  Was it in the heart of such a woman—­this woman he loved—­was it in the heart of this young girl to shatter it?

He went on to Ashuelyn, confident of her and of himself, less confident of his sister—­almost appalled at the prospect of reconciling his father and mother to this marriage that must surely be.  Yet—­so far in life—­life had finally yielded to him what he fought for; and it must yield now; and in the end it would surely give him the loyalty and sympathy of his family.  Which meant that Valerie would listen to him; and, in the certainty of his family’s ultimate acquiescence, she would wear his ring and face with him the problems and the sorrows that must come to all.

Cameron drove down to the station in the motor-car to meet him: 

“Hello, Genius,” he said, patting Neville on the back with a pudgy hand.  “How’s your twin brother, Vice?”

“Hello, you large and adipose object!” retorted Neville, seating himself in the tonneau.  “How is that overworked, money-grubbing intellect of yours staggering along?”

“Handicapped with precious thoughts; Ogilvy threw ’em into me when he was here.  How’s the wanton Muse, Louis?  Sitting on your knees as usual?”

“One arm around my neck,” admitted Neville, “and the band playing ‘Sweethearts.’”

“Waiting for you to order inspiration cocktails.  You’re looking fit.”

“Am I?  I haven’t had one.”

“Oh, I thought you threw one every time you painted that pretty model of yours—­” He looked sideways at Neville, but seeing that he was unreceptive, shrugged.

“You’re a mean bunch, you artists,” he said.  “I’d like to meet that girl, but because I’m a broker anybody’d think I had rat-plague from the way you all quarantine her—­yes, the whole lot of you—­Ogilvy, Annan, Querida.  Why, even Penrhyn Cardemon has met her; he told me so; and if he has why can’t I—­”

“For heaven’s sake let up!” said Neville, keeping his temper, “and tell me how everybody is at Ashuelyn.”

“Huh!  I’m ridden off as usual,” grunted Cameron.  “All right, then; I’ll fix it myself.  What was it you were gracious enough to inquire of me?”

“How the people are at Ashuelyn?” repeated Neville.