er face, her form, her
smile. Her sex was the sex of subterfuge.

"I went to the place where he is living, and asked for him," she said,
"and he came out and spoke to me."

"You?" he repeated incredulously. There was surely no subterfuge in her
tone, but an unreal, unbelievable note which his senses seized, and to
which he clung. "You! My daughter!"

"Yes," she answered, "I, your daughter. I suppose you think I am
shameless. It is true--I am."

Mr. Flint was utterly baffled. He was at sea. He had got beyond the range
of his experience; defence, denial, tears, he could have understood and
coped with. He crushed the telegrams into a tighter ball, sought for a
footing, and found a precarious one.

"And all this has been going on without my knowledge, when you knew my
sentiments towards the man?"

"Yes," she said. "I do not know what you include in that remark, but I
have seen him many times as many times, perhaps, as you have heard
about."

He wheeled, and walked over to a cabinet between two of the great windows
and stood there examining a collection of fans which his wife had bought
at a famous sale in Paris. Had he suddenly been asked the question, he
could not have said whether they were fans or beetles. And it occurred to
Victoria, as her eyes rested on his back, that she ought to be sorry for
him--but wasn't, somehow. Perhaps she would be to-morrow. Mr. Flint
looked at the fans, and an obscure glimmering of the truth came to him
that instead of administering a severe rebuke to the daughter he believed
he had known all his life, he was engaged in a contest with the soul of a
woman he had never known. And the more she confessed, the more she
apparently yielded, the more impotent he seemed, the tighter the demon
gripped him. Obstacles, embarrassments, disappointments, he had met early
in his life, and he had taken them as they came. There had followed a
long period when his word had been law. And now, as age came on, and he
was meeting with obstacles again, he had lost the magic gift of sweeping
them aside; the growing certainty that he was becoming powerless haunted
him night and day. Unbelievably strange, however, it was that the rays of
his anger by some subconscious process had hovered from the first about
the son of Hilary Vane, and were now, by the trend of event after event,
firmly focussed there.

He left the cabinet abruptly and came back to Victoria.

She was standing in the same position.

"You h