“Since when,” he demanded, “have I shown any inclination to play the village Lothario?  Thick ankles and robust health have never appealed to me—­I prefer the sicklier graces of civilization.”

“Kate Caynsard,” Andrew said thoughtfully, “is not of the villagers.  She leads their life, but her birth is better on her father’s side, at any rate, than our own.”

“If I might be allowed to make the suggestion,” Cecil said, regarding his brother with supercilious distaste, “don’t you think it would be just as well to change your clothes before our guests arrive?”

“Why should I?” Andrea asked calmly.

“They are not my friends.  I scarcely know even their names.  I entertain them at your request.  Why should I be ashamed of my oilskins?  They are in accord with the life I live here.  I make no pretence, you see, Cecil,” he added, with a faintly amused smile, “at being an ornamental member of Society.”

His brother regarded him with something very much like disgust.

“No!” he said sarcastically.  “No one could accuse you of that.”

Something in his tone seemed to suggest to Andrew a new idea.  He looked down at the clothes he wore beneath his oilskins—­the clothes almost of a working man.  He glanced for a moment at his hands, hardened and blistered with the actual toil which he loved—­and he looked his brother straight in the face.

“Cecil,” he said, “I believe you’re ashamed of me.”

“Of course I am,” the younger man answered brutally.  “It’s your own fault.  You choose to make a fisherman or a labouring man of yourself.  I haven’t seen you in a decent suit of clothes for years.  You won’t dress for dinner.  Your hands and skin are like a ploughboy’s.  And, d—­n it all, you’re my elder brother!  I’ve got to introduce you to my friends as the head of the De la Bornes, and practically their host.  No wonder I don’t like it!”

There was a moment’s silence.  If his words hurt, Andrew made no sign.  With a shrug of the shoulders he turned towards the staircase.

“There is no reason,” he remarked, carelessly enough, “why I should inflict the humiliation of my presence on you or on your friends.  I am going down to the Island.  You shall entertain your friends and play the host to your heart’s content.  It will be more comfortable for both of us.”

Cecil prided himself upon a certain impassivity of features and manner which some fin de siecle oracle of the cities had pronounced good form, but he was not wholly able to conceal his relief.  Such an arrangement was entirely to his liking.  It solved the situation satisfactorily in more ways than one.

“It’s a thundering good idea, Andrew, if you’re sure you’ll be comfortable there,” he declared.  “I don’t believe you would get on with my friends a bit.  They’re not your sort.  Seems like turning you out of your own house, though.”

“It is of no consequence,” Andrew said coldly.  “I shall be perfectly comfortable.”