Cardew Way was far from the center of town, and Lily knew nothing of the bomb outrages of that night.
When she went down to breakfast the next morning she found Jim Doyle pacing the floor of the dining room in a frenzy of rage, a newspaper clenched in his hand. By the window stood Elinor, very pale and with slightly reddened eyes. They had not heard her, and Doyle continued a furious harangue.
“The fools!” he said. “Damn such material as I have to work with! This isn't the time, and they know it. I've warned them over and over. The fools!”
Elinor saw her then, and made a gesture of warning. But it was too late. Lily had a certain quality of directness, and it did not occur to her to dissemble.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked, and went at once to Elinor. She had once or twice before this stood between them for Elinor's protection.
“Everything is as happy as a May morning,” Doyle sneered. “Your Aunt Elinor has an unpleasant habit of weeping for joy.”
Lily stiffened, but Elinor touched her arm.
“Sit down and eat your breakfast, Lily,” she said, and left the room.
Doyle stood staring at Lily angrily. He did not know how much she had heard, how much she knew. At the moment he did not care. He had a reckless impulse to tell her the truth, but his habitual caution prevailed. He forced a cold smile.
“Don't bother your pretty head about politics,” he said.