CHAPTER VI
“Well, grandfather,” said Lily Cardew, “the last of the Cardews is home from the wars.”
“So I presume,” observed old Anthony. “Owing, however, to your mother's determination to shroud this room in impenetrable gloom, I can only presume. I cannot see you.”
His tone was less unpleasant than his words, however. He was in one of the rare moods of what passed with him for geniality. For one thing, he had won at the club that afternoon, where every day from four to six he played bridge with his own little group, reactionaries like himself, men who viewed the difficulties of the younger employers of labor with amused contempt. For another, he and Howard had had a difference of opinion, and he had, for a wonder, made Howard angry.
“Well, Lily,” he inquired, “how does it seem to be at home?”
Lily eyed him almost warily. He was sometimes most dangerous in these moods.
“I'm not sure, grandfather.”
“Not sure about what?”
“Well, I am glad to see everybody, of course. But what am I to do with myself?”