She could only try to lead him back to Canada.  But she got little or no response.

“Our politics must seem to you splashes in a water-butt,” he said impatiently, “after London and Europe.”

“A pretty big water-butt!”

“Size makes no difference.”  Elizabeth’s lips twitched as she remembered Arthur Delaine’s similar protests; but she kept her countenance, and merely worked the harder to pull her companion out of this odd pit of ill-humour into which he had fallen.  And in the end she succeeded; he repented, and let her manage him as she would.  And whether it was the influence of this hidden action and reaction between their minds, or of the perfumed June day breathing on them from the pines, or of the giant splendour of Mount Burgess, rising sheer in front of them out of the dark avenue of the forest, cannot be told; but, at least, they became more intimate than they had yet been, more deeply interesting each to the other.  In his thoughts and ideals she found increasing fascination; her curiosity, her friendly and womanly curiosity, grew with satisfaction.  His view of life was often harsh or melancholy; but there was never a false nor a mean note.

Yet before the walk was done he had startled her.  As they turned back towards Field, and were in the shadows of the pines, he said, with abrupt decision: 

“Will you forgive me if I say something?”

She looked up surprised.

“Don’t let your brother drink so much champagne!”

The colour rushed into Elizabeth’s face.  She drew herself up, conscious of sharp pain, but also of anger.  A stranger, who had not yet known them ten days!  But she met an expression on his face, timid and yet passionately resolved, which arrested her.

“I really don’t know what you mean, Mr. Anderson!” she said proudly.

“I thought I had seen you anxious.  I should be anxious if I were you,” he went on hurriedly.  “He has been ill, and is not quite master of himself.  That is always the critical moment.  He is a charming fellow—­you must be devoted to him.  For God’s sake, don’t let him ruin himself body and soul!”

Elizabeth was dumbfounded.  The tears rushed into her eyes, her voice choked in her throat.  She must, she would defend her brother.  Then she thought of the dinner of the night before, and the night before that—­of the wine bill at Winnipeg and Toronto.  Her colour faded away; her heart sank; but it still seemed to her an outrage that he should have dared to speak of it.  He spoke, however, before she could.

“Forgive me,” he said, recovering his self-control.  “I know it must seem mere insolence on my part.  But I can’t help it—­I can’t look on at such a thing, silently.  May I explain?  Please permit me!  I told you”—­his voice changed—­“my mother and sisters had been burnt to death.  I adored my mother.  She was everything to me.  She brought us up with infinite courage, though she