curled up in the window-seat, had to listen. She had to see her father, trapped like a hunted thing, yield bit by bit. She had to know him weak. She had to learn that he was if not actively dishonest, at least acquiescent in the dishonesty of another.
And in the back of her mind was always the thought that if Crispin came, she might be discovered. And that if discovered, her father would have to know she had heard!
Yet when Crispin came, she was not discovered. He stood in the door. "Have you seen Hildegarde?" he asked the men.
"No." Carew's voice had a touch of impatience. "She's not down."
Crispin lingered for a moment, then went away. And when, after a few minutes, Winslow was called to the telephone, Carew sat alone.
He was, as he stared into the fire, a tragic figure. Above the mantel his bright-eyed ancestor met the world with a straight glance. Hereafter Carew would look at no man like that. He had broken the code of those who had preceded him. However he might excuse it, he was not one of them.
Hildegarde had a sense of revolt. She didn't want a weak father. She wanted him strong, brave, his head up, fighting. Her mother had been like that. She wondered what her mother would have thought of the man she loved, if she had seen him now.
Would she still love him? And why should he expect to be loved? One loved people for the fine things that were in them— Yet . . . oh, she was sorry for that tired, tragic father by the fire. She wanted to go
