“Malcolm, my boy,” said Sir George, drawing his chair toward me, “that which you consider your loss is my great gain.  I am growing old, and if you, who have seen so much of the gay world, will be content to live with us and share our dulness and our cares, I shall be the happiest man in England.”

“I thank you more than I can tell,” I said, careful not to commit myself to any course.

“Barring my quarrel with the cursed race of Manners,” continued Sir George, “I have little to trouble me; and if you will remain with us, I thank God I may leave the feud in good hands.  Would that I were young again only for a day that I might call that scoundrel Rutland and his imp of a son to account in the only manner whereby an honest man may have justice of a thief.  There are but two of them, Malcolm,—­father and son,—­and if they were dead, the damned race would be extinct.”

I believe that Sir George Vernon when sober could not have spoken in that fashion even of his enemies.

I found difficulty in replying to my cousin’s remarks, so I said evasively:—­

“I certainly am the most fortunate of men to find so warm a welcome from you, and so good a home as that which I have at Haddon Hall.  When I met Dorothy at the inn, I knew at once by her kindness that my friends of old were still true to me.  I was almost stunned by Dorothy’s beauty.”

My mention of Dorothy was unintentional and unfortunate.  I had shied from the subject upon several previous occasions, but Sir George was continually trying to lead up to it.  This time my lack of forethought saved him the trouble.

“Do you really think that Doll is very beautiful—­so very beautiful?  Do you really think so, Malcolm?” said the old gentleman, rubbing his hands in pride and pleasure.

“Surprisingly beautiful,” I answered, seeking hurriedly through my mind for an excuse to turn the conversation.  I had within two months learned one vital fact:  beautiful as Dorothy was, I did not want her for my wife, and I could not have had her even were I dying for love.  The more I learned of Dorothy and myself during the autumn through which I had just passed—­and I had learned more of myself than I had been able to discover in the thirty-five previous years of my life—­the more clearly I saw the utter unfitness of marriage between us.

“In all your travels,” asked Sir George, leaning his elbows upon his knees and looking at his feet between his hands, “in all your travels and court life have you ever seen a woman who was so beautiful as my girl Doll?”

His pride in Dorothy at times had a tinge of egotism and selfishness.  It seemed to be almost the pride of possession and ownership.  “My girl!” The expression and the tone in which the words were spoken sounded as if he had said:  “My fine horse,” “My beautiful Hall,” or “My grand estates.”  Dorothy was his property.  Still, he loved the girl passionately.  She was