She had made a bargain and it was not her fault that it was not binding.

He had but little pity for George Tresslyn.

The little he had was due to the belief that if the boy had been older he would have fought a better fight for the girl.

As she lay there now, propped up against the pillows, he could not help contrasting her with the splendid, high-bred daughter of Constance Tresslyn.

That she was a high-minded, honest, God-fearing girl he could not for an instant doubt, but that she lacked the--there is but one word for it--_class_ of the Tresslyn women he could not but feel as well as see.
There was a distinct line between them, a line that it would take generations to cross.