For instance, there was the episode of the neckties. A distant relative, a cousin of their mother's, who does not really come into the story at all, took occasion of expressing her approval of their existence by sending them two neckties, one purple and one green, with the direction that they should decide between them which was to have which. James, by the right of primogeniture that prevails among most families of children, was given the first choice, and picked out the purple one. Harry quietly took the other, but though there was no open dissatisfaction expressed, it soon became evident to James that his brother was tremendously disappointed. During the rest of the day, as he went about his business and pleasure, vague but disturbing recollections flitted through James' mind of Harry's being particularly anxious to possess a purple tie, of having been half promised one, indeed, by the very relative from whom these blessings came; circumstances which, from the wording of the letter which accompanied the gift, obviously constituted no legal claim on the tie, but were nevertheless enough to appeal to James' sense of moral, or "ultimate" justice.
The next morning James, according to custom, approaching the completion of his dressing some time before Harry, remarked in a casual tone:
"Oh, you can have that purple tie, if you want. I'd just as lief take the green one."
Harry, who had taken the attitude of being willing to suffer to the point of death before making a complaint in the matter, would not allow this. In the brief conversational intervals that the spirited wielding of a sponge, and subsequently of a towel, allowed, he disclaimed any predilection for ties of any particular color, or of any particular kind of tie, or for any particular color in general. Clothes were a matter of complete indifference for him; he had never been able to understand why people spent their time in raving inanely over this or that particular manner of robing themselves. As for colors, he could scarcely bother to tell one from the other; the prism presented to him a field in which it was impossible to make any choice. If, however, in his weaker moments, he had ever felt a passing fancy for one color over and above another, that color was undoubtedly green. And so on, and so forth. James made no further observation on the subject, but when he reached the necktie stage in his dressing, he quietly put on the green tie, and Harry, like the Roman senators of old, subsequently flashed in the purple.
James preferred the purple tie, but he let Harry have it because Harry felt more keenly on the subject than he. "If"—so ran the substance of his reasoning—"if I give way in this matter, about which I do not particularly care, one way or the other, there will be a better chance of my getting what I want some other time, when the issue is a really vital one. By sacrificing a penny now, I gain a pound in the future." Such clearness of sight was beyond James' years, and, but for the real sense of justice that accompanied it might have made him an opportunist. James would never in the last resort, have used his reasoning powers to cheat Harry, who, though his brother, was, when all was said and done, his best friend.
CHAPTER IV
PUPPY DOGS, AND A PSYCHOLOGICAL FACT
The story of the life of any person begins with the moment of his birth and ends with the last breath that leaves his body. The complete account of the inward and outward experiences that go to make up any one individual life would, if properly told, be the most fascinating story in the world, for there never lived a person who did not carry about within himself the materials for a great and complete novel. Such stories have never yet been written, and probably never will be, partly because they would be too long and partly because the thing would be so confoundedly hard to do. So as to make it interesting, that is. We have chosen to begin this account of the lives, or rather, a section of the lives, of Harry and James at the death of their mother because that was their first great outward experience. It influenced their inward lives even more fundamentally. It lifted their thoughts, their whole outlook on life, from what, for want of a better expression, might be called the level of youthful development and sent them branching and soaring into new and strange regions.
One of the most important outward changes that Edith Wimbourne's death caused in the life of her household was the substitution, as far as such a thing could be, of her younger sister, Agatha Fraile, in her place. Such was, in a word, the ultimate fruit of the conversation between Aunt Selina and Aunt Cecilia that occurred a chapter or two ago. James Wimbourne was approached and convinced, and in his turn approached and convinced his brother Hilary, who, in his turn, came back to his half-sister Selina and persuaded her to approach and convince that lady in question on his behalf. Aunt Selina was perfectly willing to do this, though she had not counted on it.