nherited a
flair for business--an invaluable asset, thought Miss Ocky, for a man
sentenced for life to this twentieth century America.

She was studying him now as she sat across the table from him, just as
she studied the other two when opportunity served. They were all three
practically strangers to her. The boy had not even been expected when
she went to China with the Oriental Languages committee from her
college, and in the twenty-three years that had elapsed before her
return two months ago, time had worked changes. She would never have
recognized her bright, joyous sister in this tired woman of the
listless air. As for her brother-in-law--well, perhaps it was not
quite accurate to say that he was a stranger to her; she had known
Simon Varr at the period of his courtship and marriage and he was still
Simon Varr, only a little more so! Detestable creature. She held him
accountable, quite justly, for the blight that lay upon Lucy.

And upon Bates, too, for that matter. Miss Ocky had always had a warm
place in her heart for the faithful old man, reposing in him the trust
and confidence that her father had shown in the same quarter. Bates
was something more than the ordinary servant, he came close to being a
throw-back to the feudal retainer type of other days in his loyalty and
devotion to his house, just as his former master, Sylvester Copley, had
approximated in his time the character of a country gentleman. Bates
was getting on in years, of course, which would account for much of his
increased graveness and passivity, but not all. Unless Miss Ocky's
suspicions were wide of the mark, he, too, had come under the deadening
influence of Varr's dominance--ah! but _had_ he _entirely_? At the
very moment she was thinking about it, Simon had uttered a terse
comment, as biting as acid, upon some negligible feature of the
dinner-service. No faintest flicker of his facial muscles gave any
hint that Bates had heard the remark, but his eyes revealed that he
had, and for the fraction of a second they glinted oddly red in the
candlelight. Was there a spark of manhood in his breast that still
glowed when breathed upon?

They dined in silence for the most part. Simon was never a brilliant
conversationalist, and to-night his thoughts were busy with matters far
afield. Young Copley was taciturn and moody, preoccupied by
reflections of no very agreeable nature, to judge by his glum manner.
Lucy Varr, helping herself