“I like the boy,” he said to Grace, later, over the cribbage board in the morning room.  “He has character, and a queer sort of magnetism.  It mightn’t be a bad thing—­”

Grace was counting.

“I forgot to tell you; I think she refused Pink Denslow the other day.”

“I rather gathered, from the way she spoke of young Cameron, that she isn’t interested there either.”

“Not a bit,” said Grace, complacently.  “You needn’t worry about him.”

Howard smiled.  He was often conscious that after all the years of their common life, his wife’s mind and his traveled along parallel lines that never met.

Willy Cameron was extremely happy.  He had brought his pipe along, although without much hope, but the moment they were settled by the library fire Lily had suggested it.

“You know you can’t talk unless you have it in your hand to wave around,” she said.  “And I want to know such a lot of things.  Where you live, and all that.”

“I live in a boarding house.  More house than board, really.  And the work’s all right.  I’m going to study metallurgy some day.  There are night courses at the college, only I haven’t many nights.”

He had lighted his pipe, and kept his eyes on it mostly, or on the fire.  He was afraid to look at Lily, because there was something he could not keep out of his eyes, but must keep from her.  It had been both better and worse than he had anticipated, seeing her in her home.  Lily herself had not changed.  She was her wonderful self, in spite of her frock and her surroundings.  But the house, her people, with their ease of wealth and position, Grace’s slight condescension, the elaborate simplicity of dining, the matter-of-course-ness of the service.  It was not that Lily was above him.  That was ridiculous.  But she was far removed from him.

“There is something wrong with you, Willy,” she said unexpectedly.  “You are not happy, or you are not well.  Which is it?  You are awfully thin, for one thing.”

“I’m all right,” he said, evading her eyes.

“Are you lonely?  I don’t mean now, of course.”

“Well, I’ve got a dog.  That helps.  He’s a helpless sort of mutt.  I carry his meat home from the shop in my pocket, and I feel like a butcher’s wagon, sometimes.  But he’s taken a queer sort of liking to me, and he is something to talk to.”

“Why didn’t you bring him along?”

Dogs were forbidden in the Cardew house, by old Anthony’s order, as were pipes, especially old and beloved ones, but Lily was entirely reckless.

“He did follow me.  He’s probably sitting on the doorstep now.  I tried to send him back, but he’s an obstinate little beast.”

Lily got up.

“I am going to bring him in,” she said.  “And if you’ll ring that bell we’ll get him some dinner.”

“I’ll get him, while you ring.”

Half an hour later Anthony Cardew entered his house.  He had spent a miserable evening.  Some young whipper snapper who employed a handful of men had undertaken to show him where he, Anthony Cardew, was a clog in the wheel of progress.  Not in so many words, but he had said:  “Tempora mutantur, Mr. Cardew.  And the wise employer meets those changes half-way.”