"Rather!" her face warmed at the thought. "It's odd you should say that, though. I once dreamed I saw you both fighting a duel. I believe I told you—that day in the car—how I woke up before the end, not knowing which side had won."
McTaggart smiled somewhat grimly.
"It's going to happen. In real life," he watched the girl. "But I can't win, Jill, without your help—that's certain!"
She looked up, surprised at his words.
"Of course I'll help—if I possibly can. But what do you mean? Have you really something against Stephen?" A shadow fell on her eager face as she went on, in a burst of confidence.
"It's so awful, Peter, to think that he is, legally, you know, our stepfather. It's all right for me because I'm grown up and can hold my own—but there's poor old Roddy! He's only a boy—that's where Stephen gets the pull. And just now——" she broke off—"I don't think I told you—in my letters, I mean—but there's been a thundering row at home.
"Roddy's told Mother he wants to be an artist and she's simply furious! She's set her heart on his going into the Army. She doesn't see that, without private means, it's frightfully hard on any man. It would be, of course, the Indian Service, and I can't bear to think of Roddy going abroad for the rest of his life. For it comes to that, practically. Besides, he hates the whole idea. He's not fitted for a soldier. I'm sure if Father were alive he'd agree with me. I know he would!"
She leaned back on the music stool, her hands clasped around her knees. The moonlight fell full on her face, showing the shadows under her eyes and the traces of recent suffering.
McTaggart longed to gather her up in his arms and comfort her like a child.
Never, he thought, had she looked so sweet! To him her faded gown of blue—bound about the slender waist with a narrow ribbon of black velvet, and cut open at her throat, showing, too, the rounded arms bare to the elbow—so plainly shabby, was the prettiest dress in all the world.