"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_. It's 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."