"What do you mean?" Scott's voice rang suddenly stern.
A faint smile touched his brother's face; it was like the shadow of his old, supercilious sneer. "It occurred to me that you, being a chivalrous knight, might be moved to offer her your protection," he explained coolly. "You are quite at liberty to do so, so far as I am concerned. I give you my free consent."
Scott started, as if he had been stung. "Man, don't sneer at me!" he said in a voice that quivered. "I've a good many things against you, and I'm damned if I can stand any more!"
There was desperation in his words. Sir Eustace's brows went up, and his smile departed. But there came no answering anger in his eyes.
He was silent for several moments, pacing forward, his hand no longer linked in Scott's arm. Then at last very quietly he spoke. "You're right. You have a good many things against me. But this is not one of them. I was not sneering at you."
There was a note of most unwonted sincerity in his voice that gave conviction to his words. Scott turned and regarded him in open amazement.
The steel-blue eyes met his with an odd, half-shamed expression. "You mustn't bully me, you know, Stumpy!" he said. "Remember, I can't hit back."
Scott stood still. He had never in his life been more astounded. Even then, with the direct evidence before him, he could hardly believe that the old haughty dominance had given place to something different.
"Why—can't you—hit back?" he said, almost stammering in his uncertainty.
Sir Eustace smiled again with rueful irony. "Because I've nothing to hit with, my son. Because you can break through my defence every time. If I were to kick you from here to the sea, you'd still have the best of me. Haven't you realized that yet?"