He
had clearly expected some one else. Elinor, probably.
"I beg your pardon," Lily said. "I am calling on Mrs. Doyle, and
when I saw the firelight--"
He stood up then, a tall, thin man, with close-cropped gray mustache
and heavy gray hair above a high, bulging forehead. She had never
seen Jim Doyle, but Mademoiselle had once said that he had pointed
ears, like a satyr. She had immediately recanted, on finding Lily
searching in a book for a picture of a satyr. This man had ears
pointed at the top. Lily was too startled then to analyze his face,
but later on she was to know well the high, intellectual forehead,
the keen sunken eyes, the full but firmly held mouth and pointed,
satyr-like ears of that brilliant Irishman, cynic and arch scoundrel,
Jim Doyle.
He was inspecting her intently.
"Please come in," he said. "Did the maid take your name?"
"No. I am Lily Cardew."
"I see." He stood quite still, eyeing her. "You are Anthony's
granddaughter?"
"Yes."
"Just a moment." He went out, closing the door behind him, and she
heard him going quickly up the stairs. A door closed above, and a
weight settled down on the girl's heart.
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