“You young fools want to go all the way.”
“Not at all. We’ll meet them half-way, and stop.”
“Bah!” said Anthony Cardew, and had left the club in a temper. The club was going to the dogs, along with the rest of the world. There was only a handful of straight-thinking men like himself left in it. Lot of young cravens, letting their men dominate them and intimidate them.
So he slammed into his house, threw off his coat and hat, and— sniffed. A pungent, acrid odor was floating through a partly closed door. Anthony Cardew flung open the door and entered.
Before the fire, on a deep velvet couch, sat his granddaughter. Beside her was a thin young man in a gray suit, and the thin young man was waving an old pipe about, and saying:
“Tempora mutantur, Lily. The wise employer—”
“I am afraid, sir,” said Anthony, in a terrible voice, “that you are not acquainted with the rules of my house. I object to pipes. There are cigars in the humidor behind you.”
“Very sorry, Mr. Cardew,” Willy Cameron explained. “I didn’t know. I’ll put it away, sir.”
But Anthony was not listening. His eyes had traveled from an empty platter on the hearth-rug to a deep chair where Jinx, both warm and fed at the same time, and extremely distended with meat, lay sleeping. Anthony put out a hand and pressed the bell beside him.
“I want you to meet Mr. Cameron, grandfather.” Lily was rather pale, but she had the Cardew poise. “He was in the camp when I was.”
Grayson entered on that, however, and Anthony pointed to Jinx.
“Put that dog out,” he said, and left the room, his figure rigid and uncompromising.
“Grayson,” Lily said, white to the lips, “that dog is to remain here. He’s perfectly quiet. And, will you find Ellen and ask her to come here?”
“Haven’t I made enough trouble?” asked Willy Cameron, unhappily. “I can see her again, you know.”
“She’s crazy to see you, Willy. And besides—”
Grayson had gone, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Don’t you see?” she said. “The others have always submitted. I did, too. But I can’t keep it up, Willy. I can’t live here and let him treat me like that. Or my friends. I know what will happen. I’ll run away, like Aunt Elinor.”
“You must not do that, Lily.” He was very grave.
“Why not? They think she is unhappy. She isn’t. She ran away and married a man she cared about. I may call you up some day and ask you to marry me!” she added, less tensely. “You would be an awfully good husband, you know.”
She looked up at him, still angry, but rather amused with this new conceit.
“Don’t!”
She was startled by the look on his face.
“You see,” he said painfully, “what only amuses you in that idea is—well, it doesn’t amuse me, Lily.”
“I only meant—” she was very uncomfortable. “You are so real and dependable and kind, and I—”