“Young fool!” he reflected. “If
I can’t beat his time—” He
ordered dinner to be sent up, and mixed himself a cocktail,
using the utmost care in its preparation. Drinking
it, he eyed himself complacently in the small mirror
over the mantel. Yes, life was not bad.
It was damned interesting. It was a game.
No, it was a race where a man could so hedge his
bets that he stood to gain, whoever won.
When there was a knock at the door he did not turn.
“Come in,” he said.
But it was not the waiter. It was Edith Boyd.
He saw her through the mirror, and so addressed her.
“Hello, sweetie,” he said. Then
he turned. “You oughtn’t to come
here, Edith. I’ve told you about that.”
“I had to see you, Lou.”
“Well, take a good look, then,” he said.
Her coming fitted in well with the complacence of
his mood. Yes, life was good, so long as it
held power, and drink, and women.
He stooped to kiss her, but although she accepted
the caress, she did not return it.
“Not mad at me, Miss Boyd, are you?”
“No. Lou, I’m frightened!”
On clear Sundays Anthony Cardew played golf all day.
He kept his religious observances for bad weather,
but at such times as he attended service he did it
with the decorum and dignity of a Cardew, who bowed
to his God but to nothing else. He made the responses
properly and with a certain unction, and sat during
the sermon with a vigilant eye on the choir boys,
who wriggled. Now and then, however, the eye
wandered to the great stained glass window which was
a memorial to his wife. It said beneath:
“In memoriam, Lilian Lethbridge Cardew.”
He thought there was too much yellow in John the Baptist.
On the Sunday afternoon following her ride into the
city with Louis Akers, Lily found herself alone.
Anthony was golfing and Grace and Howard had motored
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?”
