“Well, Lily,” he inquired, “how does it seem to be at home?”

Lily eyed him almost warily.  He was sometimes most dangerous in these moods.

“I’m not sure, grandfather.”

“Not sure about what?”

“Well, I am glad to see everybody, of course.  But what am I to do with myself?”

“Tut.”  He had an air of benignantly forgiving her.  “You’ll find plenty.  What did you do before you went away?”

“That was different, grandfather.”

“I’m blessed,” said old Anthony, truculently, “if I understand what has come over this country, anyhow.  What is different?  We’ve had a war.  We’ve had other wars, and we didn’t think it necessary to change the Constitution after them.  But everything that was right before this war is wrong after it.  Lot of young idiots coming back and refusing to settle down.  Set of young Bolshevists!”

He had always managed to arouse a controversial spirit in the girl.

“Maybe, if it isn’t right now, it wasn’t right before.”  Having said it, Lily immediately believed it.  She felt suddenly fired with an intense dislike of anything that her grandfather advocated.

“Meaning what?” He fixed her with cold but attentive eyes.

“Oh—­conditions,” she said vaguely.  She was not at all sure what she meant.  And old Anthony realized it, and gave a sardonic chuckle.

“I advise you to get a few arguments from your father, Lily.  He is full of them.  If he had his way I’d have a board of my workmen running my mills, while I played golf in Florida.”

Dinner was a relatively pleasant meal.  In her gradual rehabilitation of the house Grace had finally succeeded in doing over the dining room.  Over the old walnut paneling she had hung loose folds of faded blue Italian velvet, with old silver candle sconces at irregular intervals along the walls.  The great table and high-backed chairs were likewise Italian, and the old-fashioned white marble fireplace had been given an over-mantel, also white, enclosing an old tapestry.  For warmth of color there were always flowers, and that night there were red roses.

Lily liked the luxury of it.  She liked the immaculate dinner dress of the two men; she liked her mother’s beautiful neck and arms; she liked the quiet service once more; she even liked herself, moderately, in a light frock and slippers.  But she watched it all with a new interest and a certain detachment.  She felt strange and aloof, not entirely one of them.  She felt very keenly that no one of them was vitally interested in this wonder-year of hers.  They asked her perfunctory questions, but Grace’s watchful eyes were on the service, Anthony was engrossed with his food, and her father—­