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?"
"Yes. As if what happened years ago matters now, Mr. Doyle."
He eyed her.
"Don't let them break your spirit, Lily," he had said. "Success
can make people very hard.
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