She raised her shoulders as if beset by inconsistencies. "What can I do?" "You can give up the whole thing." "Give up Dominic? No! I gave him up once because I thought it was better for him. I don't think I'd do it again, even for that--certainly not for anything else. I love him, Mr. Williams, and I'm of rather a persistent sort of nature." Williams reported his failure to Antonia. He began to feel sorry for Antonia. Her age, her previous power and, above all, her mere bulk made it seem somehow humiliating that she could make no impression on this calm, steely chit of a girl. He was struck, too, by the depth and sincerity of her emotion. "Don't care so much, my dear Miss Southgate," he said. "You've done your best to protect your brother's memory. Wash your hands of it all and go back to California. Forget there ever was such a person." And then he saw what perhaps he had been stupid not to see before, that under all Miss Southgate's anger and family pride was a more creditable feeling--a love of Doris Helen, an almost maternal desire to protect her. As soon as Williams understood this--and he did not understand for some weeks--he advised compromise. "Offer her half the income and let her marry the fellow." Antonia's eyes flashed. "Let myself be blackmailed?" she said. "You admit they are trying to blackmail me?" "I admit they are in the stronger position," said Williams, as if in the experience of a lawyer it was pretty much the same thing. "I shall not yield--for her own sake," answered Antonia. In spite of the bitter issue between them the two women continued to live in the same house, and to discuss with interest and sometimes with affection all those endless daily details which two people who live in the same house must discuss. It was the preparations for the trip that finally drove Antonia to the wall: Doris' passport, her letter of credit from Southgate's bank, and the trunks all marked with the name of Southgate--"in red, with a bright-red band," Antonia explained to Williams, "so that no one can fail to notice them." The final item was a dozen black-bordered pocket handkerchiefs. Williams, coming in late one afternoon, at the time when the shops are making their last delivery, found Antonia sobbing on the sofa and the little widow erect and pale, with the small, flat, square box open between them. He looked questioningly at Doris, and she answered, pointing to the handkerchiefs, "It seems as if she did not want me to wear mourning. But I can hardly go into colors when Alexander has been dead such a short time." Antonia sobbed out without raising her head, "Can she go careering about Europe in widow's mourning with that dreadful young man in bright colours?" "Dominic's clothes are not bright," said Doris gently. "They're not black like yours," returned Antonia. The widow looked up at Williams.