ou care
for this man? I mean by that, do you want to marry him?"

"He has asked me. I have not given him any answer yet. I don't want to
marry a man my family will not receive. It wouldn't be fair to him."

Which speech drove old Anthony into a frenzy, and led him to a
bitterness of language that turned Lily cold and obstinate. She heard
him through, with her father vainly trying to break in and save the
situation; then she said, coldly:

"I am sorry you feel that way about it," and turned and left the room.

She had made no plan, of course. She hated doing theatrical things. But
shut in her bedroom with the doors locked, Anthony's furious words came
back, his threats, his bitter sneers. She felt strangely alone, too.
In all the great house she had no one to support her. Mademoiselle,
her father and mother, even the servants, were tacitly aligned with the
opposition. Except Ellen. She had felt lately that Ellen, in her humble
way, had espoused her cause.

She had sent for Ellen.

In spite of the warmth of her greeting, Lily had felt a reserve in Aunt
Elinor's welcome. It was as though she was determinedly making the best
of a bad situation.

"I had to do it, Aunt Elinor," she said, when they had gone upstairs.
There was a labor conference, Doyle had explained, being held below.

"I know," said Elinor. "I understand. I'll pin back the curtains so you
can open your windows. The night air is so smoky here."

"I am afraid mother will grieve terribly."

"I think she will," said Elinor, with her quiet gravity. "You are all
she has."

"She has father. She cares more for him than for anything in the world."

"Would you like some ice-water, dear?"

Some time later Lily roused from the light sleep of emotional
exhaustion. She had thought she heard Willy Cameron's voice. But that
was absurd, of course, and she lay back to toss uneasily for hours.
Out of all her thinking there emerged at last her real self, so long
overlaid with her infatuation. She would go home again, and make what
amends she could. They were wrong about Louis Akers, but they were
right, too.

Lying there, as the dawn slowly turned her windows to gray, she saw him
with a new clarity. She had a swift vision of what life with him would
mean. Intervals of passionate loving, of boyish dependence on her, and
then--a new face. Never again was she to see him with such clearness.
He was incapable of loyalty to a woman, even though he loved her. He
was b