There were lights in the windows of Bolton House. Jim stopped and gazed at the yellow squares, something big and powerful rising within him. Then, yielding to a sudden impulse, he approached and looked in. In a great armchair before the blazing hearth sat, or rather crouched, Andrew Bolton. He was wearing a smoking-jacket of crimson velvet and a pipe hung from his nerveless fingers. Only the man’s eyes appeared alive; they were fixed upon Lydia at the piano. She was playing some light tuneful melody, with a superabundance of trills and runs. Jim did not know Lydia played; and the knowledge of this trivial accomplishment seemed to put her still further beyond his reach. He did not know, either, that she had acquired her somewhat indifferent skill after long years of dull practice, and for the single purpose of diverting the man, who sat watching her with bright, furtive eyes.... Presently she arose from the piano and crossed the room to his side. She bent over him and kissed him on his bald forehead, her white hands clinging to his shoulders. Jim saw the man shake off those hands with a rough gesture; saw the grieved look on her face; saw the man follow her slight figure with his eyes, as she stooped under pretext of mending the fire. But he could not hear the words which passed between them. “You pretend to love me,” Bolton was saying. “Why don’t you do what I want you to?” “If you’d like to go away from Brookville, father, I will go with you. You need me!” “That’s where you’re dead wrong, my girl: I don’t need you. What I do need is freedom! You stifle me with your fussy attentions. Give me some money; I’ll go away and not bother you again.” Whereat Lydia had cried out—a little hurt cry, which reached the ears of the watcher outside. “Don’t leave me, father! I have no one but you in all the world—no one.” “And you’ve never even told me how much money you have,” the man went on in a whining voice. “There’s daughterly affection for you! By rights it all ought to be mine. I’ve suffered enough, God knows, to deserve a little comfort now.” “All that I have is yours, father. I want nothing for myself.” “Then hand it over—the control of it, I mean. I’ll make you a handsome allowance; and I’ll give you this place, too. I don’t want to rot here.... Marry that good-looking parson and settle down, if you like. I don’t want to settle down: been settled in one cursed place long enough, by gad! I should think you could see that.” “But you wanted to come home to Brookville, father. Don’t you remember you said—” “That was when I was back there in that hell-hole, and didn’t know what I wanted. How could I? I only wanted to get out. That’s what I want now—to get out and away! If you weren’t so damned selfish, you’d let me go. I hate a selfish woman!” Then it was that Jim Dodge, pressing closer to the long window, heard her say quite distinctly: