"He ought to be drawn and quartered," said Howard, savagely.

Anthony Cardew gave Elinor sanctuary, but he refused to see her
again. Except once.

"Then, if it is a boy, you want me to leave him with you?" she asked,
bending over her sewing.

"Leave him with me! Do you mean that you intend to go back to that
blackguard?"

"He is my husband. He isn't always cruel."

"Good God!" shouted Anthony. "How did I ever happen to have such
a craven creature for a daughter?"

"Anyhow," said Elinor, "it will be his child, father."

"When he turned you out, like any drab of the streets!" bellowed
old Anthony. "He never cared for you. He married you to revenge
himself on me. He sent you back here for the same reason. He'll
take your child, and break its spirit and ruin its body, for the
same reason. The man's a maniac."

But again, as on the night she came, he found himself helpless
against Elinor's quiet impassivity. He knew that, let Jim Doyle so
much as raise a beckoning finger, and she would go to him. He did
not realize that Elinor had inherited from her quiet mother the
dog-like quality of love in spite of cruelty. To Howard he stormed.
He considered Elinor's infatuation indecent. She was not a Cardew.