But for St.George the plan would long since have worked.

St.George had balked him twice--once at the club and once at his home in Kennedy Square, when he practically ordered him from the house.
And yet he could not but admit--and at this he sat bolt upright in his seat--that even according to his own high standards both St.George and Harry had measured up to them! Rather than touch another penny of his uncle's money Harry had become an exile; rather than accept a penny from his enemy, St.George had become a pauper.

With this view of the case fermenting in his mind--and he had not realized the extent of both sacrifices until that moment--a feeling of pride swept through him.
It was HIS BOY and HIS FRIEND, who had measured up!--by suffering, by bodily weakness--by privation--by starvation! And both had manfully and cheerfully stood the test! It was the blood of the DeRuyters which had put courage into the boy; it was the blood of the cavaliers that had made Temple the man he was.

And that old DeRuyter blood! How it had told in every glance of his son's eyes and every intonation of his voice! If he had not accumulated a fortune he would--and that before many years were gone.

But!--and here a chill went through him.