He was deeply resentful.  The proud fabric of his own weaving would descend in the fullness of time to a woman.  And Howard himself —­old Anthony was pitilessly hard in his judgments—­Howard was not a strong man.  A good man.  A good son, better than he deserved.  But amiable, kindly, without force.

Once the cloud had lifted, and only once.  Elinor had come home to have a child.  She came at night, a shabby, worn young woman, with great eyes in a chalk-white face, and Grayson had not recognized her at first.  He got her some port from the dining-room before he let her go into the library, and stood outside the door, his usually impassive face working, during the interview which followed.  Probably that was Grayson’s big hour, for if Anthony turned her out he intended to go in himself, and fight for the woman he had petted as a child.

But Anthony had not turned her out.  He took one comprehensive glance at her thin face and distorted figure.  Then he said: 

“So this is the way you come back.”

“He drove me out,” she said dully.  “He sent me here.  He knew I had no place else to go.  He knew you wouldn’t want me.  It’s revenge, I suppose.  I’m so tired, father.”

Yes, it was revenge, surely.  To send back to him this soiled and broken woman, bearing the mark he had put upon her—­that was deviltry, thought out and shrewdly executed.  During the next hour Anthony Cardew suffered, and made Elinor suffer, too.  But at the end of that time he found himself confronting a curious situation.  Elinor, ashamed, humbled, was not contrite.  It began to dawn on Anthony that Jim Doyle’s revenge was not finished.  For—­Elinor loved the man.

She both hated him and loved him.  And that leering Irish devil knew it.

He sent for Grace, finally, and Elinor was established in the house.  Grace and little Lily’s governess had themselves bathed her and put her to bed, and Mademoiselle had smuggled out of the house the garments Elinor had worn into it.  Grace had gone in the motor—­one of the first in the city—­and had sent back all sorts of lovely garments for Elinor to wear, and quantities of fine materials to be made into tiny garments.  Grace was a practical woman, and she disliked the brooding look in Elinor’s eyes.

“Do you know,” she said to Howard that night, “I believe she is quite mad about him still.”

“He ought to be drawn and quartered,” said Howard, savagely.

Anthony Cardew gave Elinor sanctuary, but he refused to see her again.  Except once.

“Then, if it is a boy, you want me to leave him with you?” she asked, bending over her sewing.

“Leave him with me!  Do you mean that you intend to go back to that blackguard?”

“He is my husband.  He isn’t always cruel.”

“Good God!” shouted Anthony.  “How did I ever happen to have such a craven creature for a daughter?”

“Anyhow,” said Elinor, “it will be his child, father.”