Married the daughter of a small hotel-keeper in his college town, a
pretty, soft-voiced girl, intelligent and gentle, and because
Howard was all old Anthony had left, he took her into his home.
But for many years he did not forgive her. He had one hope, that
she would give Howard a son to carry on the line. Perhaps the
happiest months of Grace Cardew's married life were those before
Lily was born, when her delicate health was safeguarded in every
way by her grim father-in-law. But Grace bore a girl child, and
very nearly died in the bearing. Anthony Cardew would never have
a grandson.

He was deeply resentful. The proud fabric of his own weaving would
descend in the fullness of time to a woman. And Howard himself
--old Anthony was pitilessly hard in his judgments--Howard was not
a strong man. A good man. A good son, better than he deserved.
But amiable, kindly, without force.

Once the cloud had lifted, and only once. Elinor had come home to
have a child. She came at night, a shabby, worn young woman, with
great eyes in a chalk-white face, and Grayson had not recognized
her at first. He got her some port from the dining-room before he
let her go into the library, and stood outside the door, his usually
impassive face working, during the interview which followed.
Probably that was Grayson's big hour, for if Anthony turned her out
he intended to go in himself, and fight for the woman he had petted
as a child.

But Anthony had not turned her out. He took one comprehensive
glance at her thin face and distorted figure. Then he said: