George hid his temper. There was no possible chance about this. Would Dalrymple go to Oakmont after the breaking off of even a secret engagement; or, defeated in his main purpose, was he hanging about for what crumbs might yet fall from the Planters' table. Nearly without reflection he burst out with:
"It's inconceivable you should permit that man about your sister."
Probably Lambert's great content forbade an answer equally angry.
"Still at it! See here. Sylvia doesn't care for you."
"I'm not talking of myself," George said. "I'm talking of Dalrymple."
With an air of kindness, undoubtedly borrowed from Betty, Lambert said easily:
"Stop worrying about him, then. Giving a friend encouragement doesn't mean asking him into the family. That idea seems to obsess you. What difference does it make to you, anyway, what man Sylvia marries? I'll say this, if you wish: Since I've had Betty I see things a bit clearer. I really shouldn't care to have Dolly the man. I don't think there's a chance of it."
"You mean," George asked, eagerly, "if there were you'd stop it?"
"I shouldn't like it," Lambert answered. "Naturally, I'd express myself."
"See here. Dalrymple isn't to be trusted. You've been too occupied. You haven't watched your sister. How can you tell what's in her mind? You didn't forecast the affair with Josiah, eh? There's only one way I can play my game—the thorough way. If it came to a real engagement I should have to say things, Lambert—things I'd hate myself for; things that would hurt me, perhaps, more than any one else. If necessary I shall say them. Will you tell me, if—if——"