"She is a nice woman in some ways," said Pyne reflectively. "Not quite my sort, perhaps, but a lady all the time. She is not an American. Came to the States about '90, I think, and lost her hubby on a ranch in California. Anyhow, the old man is dead stuck on her, and they ought to hit it off well together. The Vansittart you knew didn't happen to marry a relative of yours?"
"No. He was a mere acquaintance."
"Odd thing," ruminated Pyne. "It has just occurred to me that she resembles your daughter,—your elder daughter,—not so much in face as in style. Same sort of graceful figure, only a trifle smaller."
"Such coincidences often happen in the human family. For instance, you are not wholly unlike Enid."
"Holy gee!" said Pyne, "I'm too run down to stand flattery."
"Likeness is often a matter of environment. Characteristics, mannerisms, the subtle distinctions of class and social rank, soak in through the skin quite as sensibly as they are conferred by heredity. Take the ploughman's son and rear him in a royal palace, turn the infant prince into a peasant, and who shall say, when they reach man's estate, 'This is the true King.' You will remember it was said of the Emperor Augustus: Urbem lateritiam invenit, marmoream reliquit. 'He found the city brick, he left it marble.' The same noble result may be obtained in every healthy child properly educated."
The college-bred youth had not entered into any general conversation with Brand before. He had the tact now to conceal his astonishment at the manner of his friend's speech.
"You fling heredity to the winds, then?" he asked.
Brand rose to his feet, as was his way when deeply moved.
"Thank God, yes!" he cried.