. There was nothing
aggressive in his manner; but he had the solemnity of a timid man
resolved on a decisive measure.

"There's just one thing you can do, Mr. Waythorn," he said. "You can
remind Mrs. Waythorn that, by the decree of the courts, I am entitled
to have a voice in Lily's bringing up." He paused, and went on more
deprecatingly: "I'm not the kind to talk about enforcing my rights, Mr.
Waythorn. I don't know as I think a man is entitled to rights he hasn't
known how to hold on to; but this business of the child is different.
I've never let go there--and I never mean to."

The scene left Waythorn deeply shaken. Shamefacedly, in indirect ways,
he had been finding out about Haskett; and all that he had learned was
favorable. The little man, in order to be near his daughter, had sold
out his share in a profitable business in Utica, and accepted a modest
clerkship in a New York manufacturing house. He boarded in a shabby
street and had few acquaintances. His passion for Lily filled his life.
Waythorn felt that this exploration of Haskett was like groping about
with a dark-lantern in his wife's past; but he saw now that there were
recesses his lantern had not explored. He had never inquired into the
exact circumstances of his wife's first matrimonial rupture. On the
surface all had been fair. It was she who had obtained the divorce, and
the court had given her the child. But Waythorn knew how many
ambiguities such a verdict might cover. The mere fact that Haskett
retained a right over his daughter implied an unsuspected compromise.
Waythorn was an idealist. He always refused to recognize unpleasant
contingencies till he found himself confronted with them, and then he
saw them followed by a special train of consequences. His next days
were thus haunted, and he determined to try to lay the ghosts by
conjuring them up in his wife's presence.

When he repeated Haskett's request a flame of anger passed over her
face; but she subdued it instantly and spoke with a slight quiver of
outraged motherhood.

"It is very ungentlemanly of him," she said.

The word grated on Waythorn. "That is neither here nor there. It's a
bare question of rights."

She murmured: "It's not as if he could ever be a help to Lily--"

Waythorn flushed. This was even less to his taste. "The question is,"
he repeated, "what authority has he over her?"

She looked downward, twisting herself a little in her seat. "I am
willing to see him--I thoug