"That's the
truth, whether you believe it or not. I wasn't there two minutes."
"You're a fool, Louis," Doyle said coldly. "You'll play that game
once too often. What happens to you is your own concern, but what
may happen to me is mine. And I'll take mighty good care it doesn't
happen."
Doyle was all unction and hospitality when he met Lily in the hall.
At dinner he was brilliant, witty, the gracious host. Akers played
up to him. At the foot of the table Elinor sat, outwardly passive,
inwardly puzzled, and watched Lily. She knew the contrast the girl
must be drawing, between the bright little meal, with its simple
service and clever talk, and those dreary formal dinners at home
when old Anthony sometimes never spoke at all, or again used his
caustic tongue like a scourge. Elinor did not hate her father; he
was simply no longer her father. As for Howard, she had had a
childish affection for him, but he had gone away early to school,
and she hardly knew him. But she did not want his child here,
drinking in as she was, without clearly understanding what they
meant, Doyle's theories of unrest and revolution.
"You will find that I am an idealist, in a way," he was saying.
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