ored out
of town for luncheon. In a small office near the rear of the hall the
second man dozed, waiting for the doorbell. There would be people in
for tea later, as always on Sunday afternoons; girls and men, walking
through the park or motoring up in smart cars, the men a trifle bored
because they were not golfing or riding, the girls chattering about the
small inessentials which somehow they made so important.

Lily was wretchedly unhappy. For one thing, she had begun to feel that
Mademoiselle was exercising over her a sort of gentle espionage, and she
thought her grandfather was behind it. Out of sheer rebellion she had
gone again to the house on Cardew Way, to find Elinor out and Jim Doyle
writing at his desk. He had received her cordially, and had talked to
her as an equal. His deferential attitude had soothed her wounded pride,
and she had told him something--very little--of the situation at home.

"Then you are still forbidden to come here?"

"Yes. As if what happened years ago matters now, Mr. Doyle."

He eyed her.

"Don't let them break your spirit, Lily," he had said. "Success can
make people very hard. I don't know myself what success would do to
me. Plenty, probably." He smiled. "It isn't the past your people won't
forgive me, Lily. It's my failure to succeed in what they call success."

"It isn't that," she had said hastily. "It is--they say you are
inflammatory. Of course they don't understand. I have tried to tell
them, but--"

"There are fires that purify," he had said, smilingly.

She had gone home, discontented with her family's lack of vision, and
with herself.

She was in a curious frame of mind. The thought of Louis Akers repelled
her, but she thought of him constantly. She analyzed him clearly enough;
he was not fine and not sensitive. He was not even kind. Indeed, she
felt that he could be both cruel and ruthless. And if she was the first
good woman he had ever known, then he must have had a hateful past.

The thought that he had kissed her turned her hot with anger and shame
at such times, but the thought recurred.

Had she had occupation perhaps she might have been saved, but she had
nothing to do. The house went on with its disciplined service; Lent had
made its small demands as to church services, and was over. The weather
was bad, and the golf links still soggy with the spring rains. Her
wardrobe was long ago replenished, and that small interest gone.

And somehow there had ope