"But--inheritance, Doris! You, of all women, to undervalue that! It was a bit risky, but of course while children are so young----" Thornton paused and Doris broke in. "Inheritance is such a tricky thing," she said, looking out into the flower-filled garden, "it is such a clever masquerader. Often it is like those insects that take upon themselves the colour of the leaf upon which they cling. It isn't what it seems, and when one really knows--why, one can hardly be just, because of the injustice of inheritance." "Queer reasoning," muttered Thornton. "Why, that--kid's father might be---- well, anything!" Why he said "father" would be hard to tell. "Exactly!" agreed Doris. "But when I did not know, I could be fair and unhampered. It has paid--the child is adorable." "Shows no--no--evil tendencies?" Thornton grew more and more restive. "On the contrary--only divine ones." "We're all lucky." The man sighed, then spoke hurriedly: "I'd like to see my little girl. She is here--of course?" "Oh! yes. I have never been separated from her. I suppose--you mean to----" Doris paused. "I mean to relieve you, Doris, and assume my responsibility--now that I dare." "Your wife--is she willing?" Doris longed to say "worthy" but she knew that the woman was not. "More than willing." And now Thornton thought that the worst was over. "I will bring your little girl," Doris said, and went quietly from the room. Something of the sweetness and strength of the place seemed to go with her. Again Thornton became restless, and it came back to him that his first aversion to Doris Fletcher was connected with this power of hers to overturn, without effort, his peace of mind and self-esteem. But he had outwitted her in marrying her sister--she had antagonized him but he had won then and would win again now! The fountain irritated and annoyed him. He got up and walked about the room. "A devilish freakish conception," he muttered, gazing at the fountain and kicking at a rare rug on the floor, "a kind of madness runs through the breed, I wager. Too much blood of one sort gets clogged in the human system." And then he listened. There were childish voices nearing: sweet, piping voices with little gurgles of laughter rippling through. The laugh of happy, healthy childhood. "She's bringing them both!" thought Thornton, and an ugly scowl came to his brow. He did not know much about children, knew nothing really, except that they were noisy and usually messy--some were better looking than others; gave promise, and he hoped his child would be handsome; it might help her along, and she would need all the help she could muster. Then he heard Doris instructing the children: "See, Joan, dear, hold Nan by the hand like a big, strong sister, this is going to be another play. Now listen sharp! When we come to the steps you must stand close together and give that pretty courtesy that Mary taught you yesterday. Now, darlings--don't forget!"