TWO weeks after her mother's funeral, Hildegarde Carew came to her father's place in Maryland. The house was set on a hill from which it took its name—Round Hill—and overlooked the Chesapeake. It was of red brick, with white-painted porches of wood, and was not imposing. It was half a mile from the station, and as there was no conveyance, Hildegarde walked, carrying her bag.
It was eleven o'clock in the morning, and Louis Carew was still in bed. It was a carved mahogany bed, with cupids and angels on the posts, and a faded canopy. From where he lay, Carew could see through a wide window the road which led from the station. And so he saw his daughter coming, not knowing that she was his daughter.
"Who's that woman?" he demanded of his secretary.
The secretary stood up. He was glad to know that any one was coming. He was bored to death. "Looks like a book-agent."
"Don't let her in."
"As you please."
The secretary was not obsequious. His social status paralleled that of his employer; they had been to-
