While he spoke, avoiding looking at her, a foreboding of some wholly formless but very decided evil darted into her mind. For an instant she hesitated to utter the suggestion of principle that rose simultaneously to her lips. But to have done so would have been to shirk what he was shirking. 'Of course Nobbin is half his,' she said. Hartas did not answer but got up slowly. 'And what she earns must be his, half of it, I mean,' she said with more inward tremor, but more outward steadiness. 'Besides,' she added, getting up too and going close to him, 'do you think she's fit for this piece of work, father? It's all very well her hobbling a bit when it's only to the pits, and often no work when she gets there. No one could call us cruel to her, she's----' Hartas raised his hand suddenly and struck out. But it was only into the air, and Scilla did not wince as he had hoped she would. He would not glance at her. Not for worlds would he have owned what the influence of that glance into her earnest unwavering eyes might have been. 'Cruel to her!' he exclaimed in his thick voice, 'she's as fat as butter, and if we're stinted she has her meat. Come, Scilla, what are you driving at? Let's leave riddles.' 'The law,' said Scilla, with an urgency which felt to her own keen emotions desperate. Was not the law her phantom, the dread avenger that dogged her steps and filled her thoughts? She loved her husband with all her heart, but in her utmost loyalty she still always considered him as a transgressor, not as a victim. To Hartas he was a victim, the victim of adverse circumstance, of an embodiment of spite in the shape of Elias Constantine. Hartas Kendrew's predominant article of faith was that in which Admiral Marlowe, Mr. Severn, and Elias Constantine were inextricably mingled. But his trinity in unity possessed, according to his distorted reasoning, a viciousness which could only nurture revengefulness. 'The law,' said Scilla again, nerving herself to appeal; 'don't let us put ourselves near it. It seems a dishonest thing to say,' she added, faltering a moment, while a look of perplexity filled her eyes, 'as though we were all the time doing wrong, but you know lots of folk 'll see Nobbin at Northside Edge, and if she goes lame----' 'There's not a sore on her, and what's a hobble? There's not a sprain about her. She's sound, I tell you. D---- the law!'