These men at the table were grave, burdened with responsibility.  Her father.  Even her grandfather.  It was no longer a question of profit.  It was a question of keeping the country going.  They were like men forced to travel, and breasting a strong head wind.  There were some there who would turn, in time, and travel with the gale.  But there were others like her grandfather, obstinate and secretly frightened, who would refuse.  Who would, to change the figure, sit like misers over their treasure, an eye on the window of life for thieves.

She went upstairs, perplexed and thoughtful.  Some time later she heard the family ascending, the click of her mother’s high heels on the polished wood of the staircase, her father’s sturdy tread, and a moment or two later her grandfather’s slow, rather weary step.  Suddenly she felt sorry for him, for his age, for his false gods of power and pride, for the disappointment she was to him.  She flung open her door impulsively and confronted him.

“I just wanted to say good-night, grandfather,” she said breathlessly.  “And that I am sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Sorry—­” she hesitated.  “Because we see things so differently.”

Lily was almost certain that she caught a flash of tenderness in his eyes, and certainly his voice had softened.

“You looked very pretty to-night,” he said.  But he passed on, and she had again the sense of rebuff with which he met all her small overtures at that time.  However, he turned at the foot of the upper flight.

“I would like to talk to you, Lily.  Will you come upstairs?”

She had been summoned before to those mysterious upper rooms of his, where entrance was always by request, and generally such requests presaged trouble.  But she followed him light-heartedly enough then.  His rare compliment had pleased and touched her.

The lamp beside his high-backed, almost throne-like chair was lighted, and in the dressing-room beyond his valet was moving about, preparing for the night.  Anthony dismissed the man, and sat down under the lamp.

“You heard the discussion downstairs, to-night, Lily.  Personally I anticipate no trouble, but if there is any it may be directed at this house.”  He smiled grimly.  “I cannot rely on my personal popularity to protect me, I fear.  Your mother obstinately refuses to leave your father, but I have decided to send you to your grand-aunt Caroline.”

“Aunt Caroline!  She doesn’t care for me, grandfather.  She never has.”

“That is hardly pertinent, is it?  The situation is this:  She intends to open the Newport house early in June, and at my request she will bring you out there.  Next fall we will do something here; I haven’t decided just what.”

There was a sudden wild surge of revolt in Lily.  She hated Newport.  Grand-aunt Caroline was a terrible person.  She was like Anthony, domineering and cruel, and with even less control over her tongue.