And she also understood Jehane's predicament. She was too gentle to resent her seeming ingratitude. Looking back over the long road from girlhood, she marveled at her friend's fortitude--that she could still lift up her head proudly and, in spite of bludgeonings, plan for the future. Jehane might scold and grumble to her when Barrington's back was turned; it made no difference to her unvarying tenderness. And there were times when Jehane was ashamed of her ferocity and, laying her head on Nan's shoulder, confessed her folly. “I'm cruel,” she wept; “all the sweetness in me is turned to acid. I shall grow worse and worse, till at last I shall be quite impenitent. I can't help it. Life won't grow easier for me---- If you told the truth, you'd write over me, 'Here lies a mother who loved too much and a wife who loved too little.' I'm spoiling my children with my fondness and filling their heads with vanity---- And I shall often hurt you, little Nan. But you'll stick by me, won't you?” Barrington was suspicious that violent scenes took place in his absence; manlike, he was irritated and could not comprehend their necessity. He was furious that his wife should be upset and forbade the name of Ocky to be mentioned in his presence. Peter overheard much of the abuse which was showered on his uncle by both Jehane and her children. His eyes became flames when harsh things were said; quarrels were the result. The quarrels were for the most part with Riska. He could not believe that anyone he loved was really bad. Glory shared his grieved anger; a defensive alliance in the interest of Ocky was formed between her and himself. It was the first compact he had ever made with Glory. But she was too mild for Peter--too much of a Saint Teresa and not enough of a Joan of Arc. Glory knew that she could not be valiant; in secret she cried her heart out because he despised her cowardice. Barrington might forbid the mention of Ocky's name, but outside on the Terrace there was a perpetual reminder. A tall man, with a straight back and wooden way of walking, watched the house. He pretended not to be watching and, when anyone saw him from the window, would stroll carelessly away as though he were just taking a breath of air; but he always returned. He got so much on Barrington's nerves that he finally made up his mind to accost him. “What are you doing here, always hanging round? I won't have it.” The man, who had tried to avoid him, finding himself cornered, answered respectfully “Sorry, sir. H'it's orders.” “But what _are_ you? A plain-clothes man?” “That's not for me to say, sir.”