“Stop where you are, Braxfield,” said Guy quietly. “I want you there.”
He rose from his chair as his brother and sister entered the room, and remaining on the hearth-rug, nodded unconcernedly to both, as if he had seen them but a day before. But as they came up and shook hands with him, his nod of greeting changed to one of approval, and he smiled at his sister.
“How do you do, Harry—how do you do, Valencia!” he said. “Both changed a great deal! And you, Val—grown into a beauty, of course! All you ugly little girls do! Well—that’s right. I suppose, in the character of heavy-brother, I ought to express a pious hope that you’re as good as you’re good-looking!”
“Spare yourself the trouble!” retorted Valencia. She gave him a keen look as she took the chair that Guy had risen from. “I hope you are,” she said. “Though—I doubt it!”
Guy glanced at his brother, including Valencia in a side-glance.
“So—she’s got a tongue, this sister of ours, eh, Master Harry?” he said, with a half-amused, half-cynical laugh. “Never mind!—all the women of our family always have, I believe. Well—aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Why should we be?” demanded Valencia. “You’ve never been near us, and never once written to any of us, for seven years? You may be our brother—half-brother, rather—but you’re a stranger.”
Braxfield, standing diffidently between the table and the door, retreated into a far corner of the room, and Harry Markenmore turned on his sister.
“Don’t, Val,” he muttered. “Not quite that, you know.” He glanced at his elder brother, who was regarding Valencia from his position on the hearthrug with speculative, smiling eyes. “Valencia is a bit outspoken,” he said deprecatingly. “Of course, we’re glad to see you, Guy.”
“All right, Harry, my lad!” responded Guy. “Ill take it that you are—of course.”