“My dear sir, that is, indeed, surprising.  I have seen no public notice of your marriage.  And I watch the marriage announcements quite closely—­which is rather natural, for, if I may be permitted to mention it, I myself am frequently called upon to perform the holy rites.”  His face clouded with what seemed a painful suspicion.  “I trust, sir, that you are really married?”

“Why, damn you—­”

“Sir, you must not thus address the cloth!” sternly interposed Mr. Pyecroft.  “It is our duty to speak frankly, and to make due inquiry into the propriety of such relations.  However, since you say so, I am sure the affair is strictly correct.”  His voice softened, became nobly apologetic.  “No harm has been meant, and if any offense has been felt, I assure you of my deepest regrets.”

“See here, who the devil are you?” demanded Jack.

Mr. Pyecroft turned to Matilda.

“Matilda, my dear, will you kindly tell young Mr. De Peyster who I am.”

Matilda seemed about to choke.  “He’s—­he’s my—­my brother.”

“Your brother!” exclaimed Jack, “I didn’t know you had a brother.  You never spoke of one.”

“Which was entirely natural,” said Mr. Pyecroft, with an air of pious remorse.  “Matilda has been ashamed to speak of me.  To be utterly frank—­and it is meet that one who has been what I have been should be humble and ready to confess—­for many years I was the black sheep of the family, my name unmentioned.  But sometime since I was snatched a brand from the burning; I have remained silent about myself until I could give to my family, which had properly disowned me, a long record to prove my reformation.  I am now striving by my devotion to make some amends for my previous shortcomings.”

Jack stared incomprehensibly at this unexpected clerical brother of Matilda’s, with his unquenchable volubility.  Mr. Pyecroft gazed back with appropriate humility, yet with a lofty self-respect.

Jack turned away with a shrug, and pointed at the dark figure of Mrs. De Peyster.

“And who is that, Matilda?”

“That, sir,” put in Mr. Pyecroft quickly, easily, to forestall any blunder by the hapless Matilda—­and deftly interposing himself between Jack and Mrs. De Peyster, “that is our sister.”

“The one who lives in Syracuse?”

“Yes; and she is indisposed,” said Mr. Pyecroft.  “Our sister Angelica Simpson Jones,” he elaborated.  “Matilda is the eldest, I am the youngest; there are just us three children.”

“And might I ask, Matilda, without intending discourtesy,” said Jack, eyeing Mr. Pyecroft with disfavor, “how long your brother and sister intend to remain?”

“Matilda invited us for the summer,” said Mr. Pyecroft apologetically.

“For the summer!” repeated Jack in dismay.  Then he spoke to Matilda, caustically:  “I suppose it’s all right, Matilda, but has it been your fixed custom, when we’ve been away for the summer, to fill the house with your family?”