“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!”

CHAPTER XIV

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?”