The girl's eyes, as she met his gaze, were deeply grave.
"In all this dream of power, Hamilton," she said softly, "you have never spoken of any sense of trust or stewardship, and what you call a victory, the papers call a raid. Has it ever occurred to you, my dear brother, that perhaps your dream is, after all, one of colossal selfishness?"
The rippling ease of his muscles stiffened and his smile faded.
"Is it selfishness to give back to those one loves the things of which life has robbed them?"
She shook her head. "No—but there is such a thing as suffocating the souls in them with material kindness and bodily luxuries," she answered.
"You have been spending a great deal of time of late with Jefferson Edwardes." The manner of the man underwent one of its swift changes and grew cool and acid. "Perhaps he has been talking to you as he undertook to talk to me last night."
A light as dominant as that in her brother's came to Mary Burton's pupils.
"Perhaps," she replied.
"I'm not at all sure that I care for this intimate association with Mr. Edwardes," he curtly announced. "I am not enamored of the vaporings of visionary and self-ordained preachers."
"Possibly it is not necessary that you should be," the girl suggested. "Maybe for the purpose of my own friendships, it is enough that I like him. I hardly think you would understand his type, Hamilton."