"So this is the way you come back."

"He drove me out," she said dully. "He sent me here. He knew I
had no place else to go. He knew you wouldn't want me. It's
revenge, I suppose. I'm so tired, father."

Yes, it was revenge, surely. To send back to him this soiled and
broken woman, bearing the mark he had put upon her--that was
deviltry, thought out and shrewdly executed. During the next hour
Anthony Cardew suffered, and made Elinor suffer, too. But at the
end of that time he found himself confronting a curious situation.
Elinor, ashamed, humbled, was not contrite. It began to dawn on
Anthony that Jim Doyle's revenge was not finished. For--Elinor
loved the man.

She both hated him and loved him. And that leering Irish devil
knew it.

He sent for Grace, finally, and Elinor was established in the house.
Grace and little Lily's governess had themselves bathed her and put
her to bed, and Mademoiselle had smuggled out of the house the
garments Elinor had worn into it. Grace had gone in the motor--one
of the first in the city--and had sent back all sorts of lovely
garments for Elinor to wear, and quantities of fine materials to be
made into tiny garments. Grace was a practical woman, and she
disliked the brooding look in Elinor's eyes.

"Do you know," she said to Howard that night, "I believe she is
quite mad about him still."