“We’ve been away,” said Van Lear.

It was remarked that the inexplicable Mitchell House policy remained in force in the years since McClintock’s return; witness the present incumbent, frivolous Thompson, foreigner from Buffalo—­him and his house parties!  It was Mitchell House still, mauger the McClintock millions and a half-century of possession.  Whether this clinging to the old name was tribute to the free-handed Mitchells or evidence of fine old English firmness is a matter not yet determined.

The free-handed Mitchells themselves, as a family, were no more.  They had scattered, married or died, lost their money, gone to work, or otherwise disappeared.  Vesper kept knowledge of but two of them:  Lawyer Oscar, solid, steady, highly respectable, already in the way of becoming Squire Mitchell, and like to better the Mitchell tradition of prosperity—­a warm man, a getting-on man, not to mention that he was the older nephew and probable heir to the McClintock millions; and Oscar’s cousin, Stanley, youngest nephew of the millions, who, three years ago, had defied McClintock to his face.  Stan Mitchell had always been wild, even as a boy, they said; they remembered now.

It seemed that McClintock had commanded young Stan to break his engagement to that Selden girl—­the schoolma’am at Brookfield, my dear—­one of the hill people.  There had been a terrible scene.  Earl Dawson was staying at the Iroquois and his door happened to be open a little.

“Then you’ll get none of my money!” said the old gentleman.

“To hell with your money!” Stan said, and slammed the door.

He was always a dreadful boy, my dear!  So violent and headstrong!  Always picking on my poor Johnny at school; Johnny came home once with the most dreadful bruise over his eye—­Stanley’s work.

So young Stan flung away to the West three years ago.  The Selden girl still teaches the Brookfield District; Stan Mitchell writes to her, the mail carrier says.  No-o; not so bad-looking, exactly—­in that common sort of way!

CHAPTER IX

“Far be it from me to—­to—­”

“Cavil or carp?”

“Exactly.  Thank you.  Beautiful line!  Quite Kipling.  Far from me to cavil or carp, Tum-tee-tum-tee-didy, Or shift the shuttle from web or warp.  And all for my dark-eyed lydy!  Far be it from me, as above.  Nevertheless—­”

“Why, then, the exertion?”

“Duty.  Friendship.  Francis Charles Boland, you’re lazy.”

“Ferdie,” said Francis Charles, “you are right.  I am.”

“Too lazy to defend yourself against the charge of being lazy?”

“Not at all.  The calm repose; that sort of thing—­what?”

Mr. Boland’s face assumed the patient expression of one misjudged.

“Laziness!” repeated Ferdie sternly. “’Tis a vice that I abhor.  Slip me a smoke.”

Francis Charles fumbled in the cypress humidor at Ferdie’s elbow; he leaned over the table and gently closed Ferdie’s finger and thumb upon a cigarette.