He stood up then, a tall, thin man, with close-cropped gray mustache and heavy gray hair above a high, bulging forehead. She had never seen Jim Doyle, but Mademoiselle had once said that he had pointed ears, like a satyr. She had immediately recanted, on finding Lily searching in a book for a picture of a satyr. This man had ears pointed at the top. Lily was too startled then to analyze his face, but later on she was to know well the high, intellectual forehead, the keen sunken eyes, the full but firmly held mouth and pointed, satyr-like ears of that brilliant Irishman, cynic and arch scoundrel, Jim Doyle. He was inspecting her intently. “Please come in,” he said. “Did the maid take your name?” “No. I am Lily Cardew.” “I see.” He stood quite still, eyeing her. “You are Anthony's granddaughter?” “Yes.” “Just a moment.” He went out, closing the door behind him, and she heard him going quickly up the stairs. A door closed above, and a weight settled down on the girl's heart. He was not going to let her see Aunt Elinor. She was frightened, but she was angry, too. She would not run away. She would wait until he came down, and if he was insolent, well, she could be haughty. She moved to the fire and stood there, slightly flushed, but very straight. She heard him coming down again almost immediately. He was outside the door. But he did not come in at once. She had a sudden impression that he was standing there, his hand on the knob, outlining what he meant to say to her when he showed the door to a hated Cardew. Afterwards she came to know how right that impression was. He was never spontaneous. He was a man who debated everything, calculated everything beforehand. When he came in it was slowly, and with his head bent, as though he still debated within himself. Then: “I think I have a right to ask what Anthony Cardew's granddaughter is doing in my house.” “Your wife's niece has come to call on her, Mr. Doyle.” “Are you quite sure that is all?” “I assure you that is all,” Lily said haughtily. “It had not occurred to me that you would be here.” “I dare say. Still, strangely enough, I do spend a certain amount of time in my home.” Lily picked up her muff. “If you have forbidden her to come down, I shall go.” “Wait,” he said slowly. “I haven't forbidden her to see you. I asked her to wait. I wanted a few moments. You see, it is not often that I have a Cardew in my house, and I am a selfish man.” She hated him. She loathed his cold eyes, his long, slim white hands. She hated him until he fascinated her. “Sit down, and I will call Mrs. Doyle.” He went out again, but this time it was the elderly maid who went up the stairs. Doyle himself came back, and stood before her on the hearth rug. He was slightly smiling, and the look of uncertainty was gone. “Now that you've seen me, I'm not absolutely poisonous, am I, Miss Lily? You don't mind my calling you that, do you? You are my niece. You have been taught to hate me, of course.”