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"But your wood is wanted mainly for burning, so I can't see that a little unsoundness can affect you much." Charles laughed.

"A rotten tree burns twice—thrice—as fast as a sound one. That's why we shall have burned all our old trees before the new ones are up. I'll lay, brother, that when Conster's yours, the furnace will be blowing at a loss."

"Then it shall blow no more—I'll have no loss on it."

Gervase's inheritance was in the way of being a joke between them—a better joke for the elder than for the younger—because Charles was scarcely two years older than his brother. In point of fact he looked younger; his skin was almost unlined and his forehead was pale and smooth under the eaves of his monstrous periwig. Beside him Gervase looked gnarled, and there was grey in the hard, stubbly thatch of his hair. Only his smile was younger than his brother's, for he had a wide grin showing sound, white teeth, while Charles's teeth were minced together like a rabbit's and his smile was languid.