startled, inquiring glance at the girl beside her.

"You--you mean the matter of heredity, Sylvia?"

"Yes. I think my uncle Major Belwether chose you as his august
mouthpiece for that little sermon on the dangers of heredity--the danger
of being ignorant concerning what women of my race had done--before I
came into the world they found so amusing."

"I told you several things," returned Mrs. Ferrall composedly. "Your
uncle thought it best for you to know."

"Yes. The marriage vows sat lightly upon some of my ancestors, I gather.
In fact," she added coolly, "where the women of my race loved they
usually found the way--rather unconventionally. There was, if I
understood you, enough of divorce, of general indiscretion and
irregularity to seriously complicate any family tree and coat of arms I
might care to claim--"

"Sylvia!"

The girl lifted her pretty bare shoulders. "I'm sorry, but could I help
it? Very well; all I can do is to prove a decent exception. Very well;
I'm doing it, am I not?--practically scared into the first solidly
suitable marriage offered--seizing the unfortunate Howard with both hands
for fear he'd get away and leave me alone with only a queer family
record for company! Very well! Now then, I want to ask you why
everybody, in my case, didn't go about with sanctimonious faces and
dolorous mien repeating: 'Her grand-mother eloped! Her mother ran away.
Poor child, she's doomed! doomed!'"