"If you mean McComas, Albert went over months ago. And he doesn't seem to have lost anything by doing so," I ventured to add.
"This marriage would clinch it, would confirm it. I should lose him at last, and completely, just as I have lost—everything."
"Raymond," I could scarcely keep from saying, "you deceive yourself. You have really never cared for Albert at all. The only concern here is your own pride—the futile working of a will that is too weak to get its own way."
But I kept silence, and he continued the silence. Yet I felt that he was gathering force for the greatest objection of all.
"I have heard them spoken of," he said, after a little, "as—as brother and sister. For them to marry! It's unseemly."
"Raymond!" I protested again, with even more vigor than before. "Why must you say a thing like that?"
"The same father and mother—now. Living together—going about together as members of one family.... They did, you know."
"Yes, for a few weeks in the year. 'One family'? What is the mere label? Nothing. What is the real situation? Everything. Of blood-relationship not a trace. Why, even cousins marry—but here are two strains absolutely different.... Have you," I asked, "have you brought up this point with—Albert?"
Raymond glanced at the letters.
"You have! And he says what I say!"