"Oh! Oh! God!" Ethel cried.
Her grandfather said not another word; he stood for only a moment more, looking at her; then, satisfied, he pulled on his hat and stalked to the door. He had not known whether Ethel had learned enough to have already come to believe that Agnes had been the mother of Barney Loutrelle; and the success of Lucas's scheme swung on that. But he saw that he had told her something which she was sure was true; and so, though she might deny and refuse his statement about her father, yet he had planted in her a doubt—a question, unresolvable—and this, for his purposes, was as useful as credence.
He let himself out and walked down to his son's town car which had waited.
In the whirl of her emotions, she was endeavoring to fasten thought upon Barney only as cousin Agnes's son; but against her will, and revolting her, thoughts of her father would come in. A score of circumstances marshalled in her mind to deny her grandfather's word; and then a score more crowded to lend it a color of credulity. Agnes's son! Yes; that was well; she felt no recoil at that; but at the idea of her father and Agnes— A lie— Yet why had her father sought Barney?—Who?— Oh, she could not believe it; yet she could not know. And if it were true?
Oh, last night he had taken her as a lover, Agnes's son and—her father's? She was here in Agnes's house—Agnes who might have been—might have been—
Only a few short moments ago, she had been longing for Barney, her heart leaping at every sound which might announce him; she had desired his voice, sight of him, the pressure of his lips, his cheek warm against
