he was in them, the doors closed and only Burton, his valet, in
attendance, how mysterious they became!

Increasingly, in later years, Lily had felt and resented the
domination of the old man. She resented her father's acquiescence
in that domination, her mother's good-humored tolerance of it. She
herself had accepted it, although unwillingly, but she knew, rather
vaguely, that the Lily Cardew who had gone away to the camp and the
Lily Cardew who stood that day before her grandfather's throne-like
chair under its lamp, were two entirely different people.

She was uneasy rather than defiant. She meant to keep the peace.
She had been brought up to the theory that no price was too great
to pay for peace. But she wondered, as she stood there, if that
were entirely true. She remembered something Willy Cameron had
said about that very thing.

"What's wrong with your grandfather," he had said, truculently, and
waving his pipe, "is that everybody gets down and lets him walk on
them. If everybody lets a man use them as doormats, you can't blame
him for wiping his feet on them. Tell him that sometime, and see
what happens."

"Tell him yourself!" said Lily.

He had smiled cheerfully. He had an engaging sort of smile.

"Maybe I will," he said. "I am a rising young man, and my voice
may some day be heard in the land. Sometimes I feel the elements
of greatness in me, sweet child. You haven't happened to notice