and ancestors the next.

"He was rather fond of me--for a little," she thought to herself wearily,
as she stood at the hall window, looking out into the rain. At the point
which things had now reached she knew very well that she meant nothing at
all to him. He would not beat her, or starve her, or even, perhaps,
desert her. Such behaviour would disturb his existence as much as hers;
and he did not mean to be disturbed. She might go her own way--she and
the child; he would give her food and lodging and clothes, of a sort, so
long as she did not interfere with his tastes, or spend his money.

Then, suddenly, while she stood wrathfully pondering, a gust of anger
rose--childish anger, such as she had shown the night before, when she
had tried to get out of the carriage. She turned, ran down the corridor
to the door which she understood was the door of his study--and entered
with a burst.

"Edmund!--I want to speak to you!"

Melrose, who was hanging, frowning and absorbed, over a carpenter who was
freeing what seemed to be an old clock from the elaborate swathings of
paper and straw in which it had been packed, looked up with annoyance.

"Can't you see, Netta, that I'm very busy?"

"I can't help it!--it's about baby."

With a muttered "D--n!" Melrose came toward her.

"What on earth do you want?"