le down. Set of young Bolshevists!"

He had always managed to arouse a controversial spirit in the girl.

"Maybe, if it isn't right now, it wasn't right before." Having said it,
Lily immediately believed it. She felt suddenly fired with an intense
dislike of anything that her grandfather advocated.

"Meaning what?" He fixed her with cold but attentive eyes.

"Oh--conditions," she said vaguely. She was not at all sure what she
meant. And old Anthony realized it, and gave a sardonic chuckle.

"I advise you to get a few arguments from your father, Lily. He is full
of them. If he had his way I'd have a board of my workmen running my
mills, while I played golf in Florida."

Dinner was a relatively pleasant meal. In her gradual rehabilitation
of the house Grace had finally succeeded in doing over the dining room.
Over the old walnut paneling she had hung loose folds of faded blue
Italian velvet, with old silver candle sconces at irregular intervals
along the walls. The great table and high-backed chairs were likewise
Italian, and the old-fashioned white marble fireplace had been given an
over-mantel, also white, enclosing an old tapestry. For warmth of color
there were always flowers, and that night there were red roses.

Lily liked the luxury of it. She liked the immaculate dinner dress of
the two men; she liked her mother's beautiful neck and arms; she liked
the quiet service once more; she even liked herself, moderately, in a
light frock and slippers. But she watched it all with a new interest and
a certain detachment. She felt strange and aloof, not entirely one of
them. She felt very keenly that no one of them was vitally interested
in this wonder-year of hers. They asked her perfunctory questions, but
Grace's watchful eyes were on the service, Anthony was engrossed with
his food, and her father--

Her father was changed. He looked older and care-worn. For the first
time she began to wonder about her father. What was he, really, under
that calm, fastidiously dressed, handsome exterior? Did he mind the
little man with the sardonic smile and the swift unpleasant humor, whose
glance reduced the men who served into terrified menials? Her big,
blond father, with his rather slow speech, his honest eyes, his slight
hesitation before he grasped some of the finer nuances of his father's
wit. No, he was not brilliant, but he was real, real and kindly. Perhaps
he was strong, too. He looked strong.

With the same pitiless j