Angela Vivian’s brother Rupert was, perhaps, not unlike her in feature and colouring, but there was a curious dissimilarity of expression between the two. Angela’s dark, grey eyes had a sweetness in which Rupert’s were lacking; the straight, regular features, which with her were brightened by a tender play of emotion, were, with him, cold and grave. The mouth was a fastidious one; the bearing of the man, though full of distinction, could sometimes be almost repellantly haughty. The merest sketch of him would not be complete unless we added that his dress was faultless, and that he was apt to bestow a somewhat finical care upon the minor details of his toilet.

It was in October, when “everybody” was still supposed to be out of town, that Rupert Vivian walked composedly down Gower-street meditating on the news which the latest post had brought him. In sheer absence of mind he almost passed the house at which he had been intending to call, and he stood for a minute or two upon the steps, as if not quite sure whether or no he would enter. Finally, however, he knocked at the door and rang the bell, then prepared himself, with a resigned air, to wait until it should be opened. He had never yet found that a first summons gained him admittance to that house.

After waiting five minutes and knocking twice, a slatternly maid appeared and asked him to walk upstairs. Rupert followed her leisurely; he knew very well what sort of reception to expect, and was not surprised when she merely opened the drawing-room door, and left him to announce himself. “No ceremony” was the rule in the Herons’ household, and very objectionable Rupert Vivian sometimes found it.

The day had been foggy and dark, and a bright fire threw a cheerful light over the scene which presented itself to Rupert’s eyes. A pleasant clinking of spoons and cups and saucers met his ear. He stood at the door for a moment unobserved, listening and looking on. He was a privileged person in that house, and considered himself quite at liberty to look and listen if he chose.

The room had an air of comfort verging upon luxury, but if was untidy to a degree which Rupert thought disgraceful. For the rich hues of the curtains, the artistic character of the Japanese screens and Oriental embroideries, the exquisite landscape-paintings on the walls, were compatible with grave deficiencies in the list of more ordinary articles of furniture. There were two or three picturesque, high-backed chairs, made of rosewood (black with age) and embossed leather, but the rest of the seats consisted of divans, improvised by ingenious fingers out of packing-boxes and cushions covered with Morris chintzes; or brown Windsor chairs, evidently imported straight from the kitchen. A battered old writing-desk had an incongruous look when placed next to a costly buhl clock on a table inlaid indeed with mother-of-pearl, but wanting in one leg; and so no valuable blue china was apt to pass unobserved upon the mantelpiece because it was generally found in company with a child’s mug, a plate of crusts, or a painting-rag. A grand piano stood open, and was strewn with sheets of music; two sketching portfolios conspicuously adorned the hearth-rug. A tea-table was drawn up near the fire, and the firelight was reflected pleasantly in the gleaming silver and porcelain of the tea-service.

The human elements of the scene were very diverse. Mrs. Heron, a languid-looking, fair-haired woman, lay at full length on one of the divans. Her step-daughter, Kitty, sat at the tea-table, and Kitty’s elder brother, Percival, a tall, broad-shouldered young man of eight-and-twenty, was leaning against the mantelpiece. A girl, who looked about twenty-one years of age was sitting in the deepest shadow of the room. The firelight played upon her hands, which lay quietly folded before her in her lap, but it did not touch her face. Two or three children were playing about the floor with their toys and a white fox-terrier. The young man was talking very fast, two at least of the ladies were laughing, the children were squabbling and shouting. It was a Babel. As Rupert stood at the door he caught the sense of Percival’s last rapid sentences.

“No right nor wrong in the case. You must allow me to say that you take an exclusively feminine view of the matter, which, of course, is narrow. I have as much right to sell my brains to the highest bidder as my friend Vivian has to sell his pictures when he gets the chance which isn’t often.”

“There is nothing like the candour of an impartial friend,” said Rupert, good-humouredly, as he advanced into the room. “Allow me to tell you that I sold my last painting this morning. How do you do, Mrs. Heron?”

His appearance produced a lull in the storm. Percival ceased to talk and looked slightly very slightly disconcerted. Mrs. Heron half rose; Kitty made a raid upon the children’s toys, and carried some of them to the other end of the room, whither the tribe followed her, lamenting. Then, Percival laughed aloud.

“Where did you come from?” he said, in a round, mellow, genial voice, which was singularly pleasant to the ear. “’Listeners hear no good of themselves.’ You’ve proved the proverb.”

“Not for the first time when you are the speaker. I have found that out. How are you, Kitty? Good evening, Miss Murray.”

“How good of you to come to see us, Mr. Vivian!” said Mrs. Heron, in a low, sweetly-modulated voice, as she held out one long, white hand to her visitor. She re-arranged her draperies a little, and lay back gracefully when she had spoken. Rupert had never seen her do anything but lie on sofas in graceful attitudes since he first made her acquaintance. It was her metier. Nobody expected anything else from her except vague, theoretic talk, which she called philosophy. She had been Kitty’s governess in days gone by. Mr. Heron, an artist of some repute, married her when he had been a widower for twelve months only. Since that time she had become the mother of three handsome, but decidedly noisy, children, and had lapsed by degrees into the life of a useless, fine lady, to whom household cares and the duties of a mother were mere drudgery, and were left to fall as much as possible on the shoulders of other people. Nevertheless, Mrs. Heron’s selfishness was of a gentle and even loveable type. She was seldom out of humour, rarely worried or fretful; she was only persistently idle, and determined to consider herself in feeble health.

Vivian’s acquaintance with the Herons dated from his first arrival in London, six years ago, when he boarded with them for a few months. The disorder of the household had proved too great a trial to his fastidious tastes to be borne for a longer space of time. He had, however, formed a firm friendship with the whole family, especially with Percival; and for the last three or four years the two young men had occupied rooms in the same house and virtually lived together. To anyone who knew the characters of the friends, their friendship was somewhat remarkable. Vivian’s fault was an excess of polish and refinement; he attached unusual value to matters of mere taste and culture. Possibly this was the link which really attached him to Percival Heron, who was a man of considerable intellectual power, although possessed sometimes by a sort of irrepressible brusqueness and roughness of manner, with which he could make himself exceedingly disagreeable even to his friends. Percival was taller, stronger, broader about the shoulders, deeper in the chest, than Vivian in fact, a handsomer man in all respects. Well-cut features, pale, but healthy-looking; brilliant, restless, dark eyes; thick brown hair and moustache; a well-knit, vigorous frame, which gave no sign as yet of the stoutness to which it inclined in later years, these were points that made his appearance undeniably striking and attractive. A physiognomist might, however, have found something to blame as well as to praise in his features. There was an ominous upright line between the dark brows, which surely told of a variable temper; the curl of the laughing lips, and the fall of the heavy moustache only half concealed a curious over-sensitiveness in the lines of the too mobile mouth. It was not the face of a great thinker nor of a great saint, but of a humorous, quick-witted, impatient man, of wide intelligence, and very irritable nervous organisation.

The air of genial hilarity which he could sometimes wear was doubtless attractive to a man of Vivian’s reserved temperament. Percival’s features beamed with good humour he laughed with his whole heart when anything amused him. Vivian used to look at him in wonder sometimes, and think that Percival was more like a great overgrown boy than a man of eight-and-twenty. On the other hand, Percival said that Vivian was a prig.

Kitty, sitting at the tea-table, did not think so. She loved her brother very much, but she considered Mr. Vivian a hero, a demigod, something a little lower, perhaps, than the angels, but not very much. Kitty was only sixteen, which accounts, possibly, for her delusion on this subject. She was slim, and round, and white, with none of the usual awkwardness of her age about her. She had a well-set, graceful little head, and small, piquant features; her complexion had not much colour, but her pretty lips showed the smallest and pearliest of teeth when she smiled, and her dark eyes sparkled and danced under the thin, dark curve of her eyebrows and the shade of her long, curling lashes. Then her hair would not on any account lie straight, but disposed itself in dainty tendrils and love-locks over her forehead, which gave her almost a childish look, and was a serious trouble to Miss Kitty herself, who preferred her step-mother’s abundant flaxen plaits, and did not know the charm that those soft rings of curling hair lent to her irregular, little face.

Vivian took a cup of tea from her with an indulgent smile, He liked Kitty extremely well. He lent her books sometimes, which she did not always read. I am afraid that he tried to form her mind. Kitty had a mind of her own, which did not want forming. Perhaps Percival Heron, was right when he said that Vivian was a prig. He certainly liked to lecture Kitty; and she used to look up at him with great, grave eyes when he was lecturing, and pretend to understand what he was saying. She very often did not understand a word; but Rupert never suspected that. He thought that Kitty was a very simple-minded little person.

“There was quite an argument going on when you appeared, Mr. Vivian,” said Mrs. Heron, languidly. “It is sometimes a most difficult matter to decide what is right and what is wrong. I think you must decide for us.”

“I am not skilled in casuistry,” said Vivian, smiling. “Is Percival giving forth some of his hérésies?”

“I was never less heretical in my life,” cried Percival. “State your case, Bess; I’ll give you the precedence.”

Vivian turned towards the dark corner.

“It is Miss Murray’s difficulty, is it?” he said, with a look of some interest. “I shall be glad to hear it.”

The girl in the dark corner stirred a little uneasily, but she spoke with no trepidation of manner, and her voice was clear and cool.

“The question,” she said, “is whether a man may write articles in a daily paper, advocating views which are not his own, simply because they are the views of the editor. I call it dishonesty.”

“So do I,” said Kitty, warmly.

“Dishonesty? Not a bit of it,” rejoined Percival. “The writer is the mouthpiece of the paper, which advocates certain views; he sinks his individuality; he does not profess to explain his own opinions. Besides, after all, what is dishonesty? Why should people erect honesty into such a great virtue? It is like truth-telling and peaches; nobody wants them out of their proper season; they are never good when they are forced.”

“I don’t see any analogy between truth-telling and peaches,” said the calm voice from the corner.

“You tell the truth all the year round, don’t you, Bess?” said Kitty, with a little malice.

“But we are mortal, and don’t attempt to practice exotic virtues,” said Percival, mockingly. “I see no reason why I should not flourish upon what is called dishonesty, just as I see no reason why I should not tell lies. It is only the diseased sensibility of modern times which condemns either.”

“Modern times?” said Vivian. “I have heard of a commandment

“Good Heavens!” said Percival, throwing back his handsome head, “Vivian is going to be didactic! I think this conversation has lasted quite long enough. Elizabeth, consider yourself worsted in the argument, and contest the point no longer.”

“There has been no argument,” said Elizabeth. “There has been assertion on your part, and indignation on ours; that is all.”

“Then am I to consider myself worsted?” asked Percival. But he got no answer. Presently, however, he burst out with renewed vigour.

“Right and wrong! What does it mean? I hate the very sound of the words. What is right to me is wrong to you, and vice versa. Its all a matter of convention. Now, who shall arbitrate? as Browning says

’Now, who shall arbitrate?
Ten men love what I hate,
Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;
Ten, who in ears and eyes
Match me; we all surmise,
They, this thing, and I, that; whom shall my soul believe?”

The lines rang out boldly upon the listeners ears. Percival was one of the few men who can venture to recite poetry without making themselves ridiculous. He continued hotly

“There is neither truth nor falsehood in the world, and those who aver that there is are either impostors or dupes.”

“Ah,” said Vivian, “you remind me of Bacon’s celebrated sentence ’Many there be that say with jesting Pilate, What is truth? but do not wait for an answer.’”

“I think you have both quoted quite enough,” said Kitty, lightly. “You forget how little I understand of these deep subjects. I don’t know how it is, but Percival always says the things most calculated to annoy people; he never visits papa’s studio without abusing modern art, or meets a doctor without sneering at the medical profession, or loses an opportunity of telling Elizabeth, who loves truth for its own sake, that he enjoys trickery and falsehood, and thinks it clever to tell lies.”

“Very well put, Kitty,” said Percival, approvingly. “You have hit off your brother’s amiable character to the life. Like the child in the story, I could never tell why people loved me so, but now I know.”

There was a general laugh, and also a discordant clatter at the other end of the room, where the children, hitherto unnoticed, had come to blows over a broken toy.

“What a noise they make!” said Percival, with a frown.

“Perhaps they had better go away,” murmured Mrs. Heron, gently. “Dear Lizzy, will you look after them a little? They are always good with you.”

The girl rose and went silently towards the three children, who at once clustered round her to pour their woes into her ear. She bent down and spoke to them lovingly, as it seemed, and finally quitted the room with one child clinging round her neck, and the others hanging to her gown. Percival gave vent to a sudden, impatient sigh.

“Miss Murray is fond of children,” said Vivian, looking after her pleasantly.

“And I am not,” snapped Kitty, with something of her brother’s love of opposition in her tone. “I hate children.”

“You! You are only a child yourself,” said he, turning towards her with a kindly look in his grave eyes, and an unwonted smile. But Kitty’s wrath was appeased by neither look nor smile.

“Then I had better join my compeers,” she said, tartly. “I shall at least get the benefit of Elizabeth’s affection for children.”

Vivian’s chair was close to hers, and the tea-table partly hid them from Percival’s lynx eyes. Mrs. Heron was half asleep. So there was nothing to hinder Mr. Rupert Vivian from putting out his hand and taking Kitty’s soft fingers for a moment soothingly in his own. He did not mean anything but an elderly-brotherly, patronising sort of affection by it; but Kitty was “thrilled through every nerve” by that tender pressure, and sat mute as a mouse, while Vivian turned to her step-mother and began to speak.

“I had some news this morning of my sister,” he said. “You heard of the sad termination to her engagement?”

“No; what was that?”

“She was to be married before Christmas to a Mr. Luttrell; but Mr. Luttrell was killed a short time ago by a shot from his brother’s gun when they were out shooting together.”

“How very sad!”

“The brother has gone or is going abroad; report says that he takes the matter very much to heart. And Angela is going to live with Mrs. Luttrell, the mother of these two men. I thought these details might be interesting to you,” said Vivian, looking round half-questioningly, “because I understand that the Luttrells are related to your young friend or cousin Miss Murray.”

“Indeed? I never heard her mention the name,” said Mrs. Heron.

Vivian thought of something that he had recently heard in connection with Miss Murray and the Luttrell family, and wondered whether she knew that if Brian Luttrell died unmarried she would succeed, to a great Scotch estate. But he said nothing more.

“Where is Elizabeth?” said Percival, restlessly. “She is a great deal too much with these children they drag the very life out of her. I shall go and find her.”

He marched away, noting as he went, with much dissatisfaction, that Mrs. Heron was inviting Vivian to dinner, and that he was accepting the invitation.

He went to the top of the house, where he knew that a room was appropriated to the use of the younger children. Here he found Elizabeth for once without the three little Herons. She was standing in the middle of the room, engaged in the prosaic occupation of folding up a table-cloth.

He stood in the doorway looking at her for a minute or two before he spoke. She was a tall girl, with fine shoulders, and beautiful arms and hands. He noticed them particularly as she held up the cloth, shook it out, and folded it. A clear, fine-grained skin, with a colour like that of a June rose in her cheeks, well-opened, calm-looking, grey-blue eyes, a mass of golden hair, almost too heavy for her head; a well-cut profile, and rather stately bearing, made Elizabeth Murray a noticeable person even amongst women more strictly beautiful than herself. She was poorly and plainly dressed, but poverty and plainness became her, throwing into strong relief the beauty of her rose-tints and finely-moulded figure. She did not start when she saw Percival at the door; she smiled at him frankly, and asked why he had come.

“Do you know anything of the Luttrells?” he asked, abruptly.

“The Luttrells of Netherglen? They are my third cousins.”

“You never speak of them.”

“I never saw them.”

“Do you know what has happened to one of them.”

“Yes. He shot his brother by mistake a few days ago.”

“I was thinking rather of the one who was killed,” said Percival. “Where did you see the account? In the newspaper?”

“Yes.” Then she hesitated a little. “And I had a letter, too.”

“From the Luttrells themselves?”

“From their lawyer.”

“And you held your tongue about it?”

“There was nothing to say,” said Elizabeth, with a smile.

Percival shrugged his shoulders, and went back to the drawing-room.