senden, which is at present in the market, and spend
the remainder of my life in the place which once belonged to my ancestors.
That has been the dream of my life, and I shall soon be able to carry it
out."

A silence fell between them upon this statement, and Robert Turold's eyes
turned towards his papers again. But Thalassa stood watching him, as
though he had something on his mind still. He brought it out abruptly--

"And what about your daughter?"

"My daughter is going to London with my sister for a prolonged visit,"
said Robert Turold hurriedly. "She needs womanly training and other
advantages which I, in my preoccupations, have been unable to bestow upon
her. It is greatly to her advantage to go."

Robert Turold gave this explanation with averted face, in a tone which
sounded almost apologetic. The relative positions between them seemed
curiously reversed. It was as though Thalassa were the master, and the
other the man.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" Thalassa turned a cautious yet penetrating eye
upon his master. "Well, she's your own daughter, so I suppose you know
what's the best for her." He spoke indifferently, but there was an odd
note in his voice. He picked up his tray, and carelessly added: "For my
part I shall be glad to get out of Cornwall. It's a savage place, only fit
for savages and seagulls. There's the wind rising again."

A violent gust shook the house, and rattled the window-panes of the room.
It was the eyrie in which the deceased artist had painted his pictures,
with two large windows which looked over the cliff. Again the gale sprang
at the house, and smote the windows with spectral blows. Downstairs, a
door slammed sharply.

"Damn the wind!" exclaimed Thalassa peevishly. "There's no keeping it out.
I'm going downstairs to lock up now. You'll have your supper up here, I
suppose?"

"Yes. I have a lot of work to do before I go to bed."

Thalassa left the room without further speech, and Robert Turold began
rummaging among his papers with a hand which trembled slightly. The table
was littered with parchments, old books, and some sheets of newly written
foolscap. He picked up his pen and plunged it into a brass inkstand, then
paused in thought. His face was perturbed and uneasy. It may be that he
was reviewing the events of the day, wondering, perhaps, whether he had
paid too high a price for the attainment of his ambition. For it he had
sacrificed his daughter and the woman who now slept in