"Thank you," he said again without anger, serene in his complete
independence.

Mrs. Harrington frowned. A dream passed through her mind--a great
desire. What if she could crush this man's pride? For his six
years' silence had never ceased to gall her. What if she could
humble him so completely that he would come asking the help she so
carelessly offered?

With a woman's instinct she hit upon the only possible means of
attaining this end. She did not pause to argue that a nature such
as Luke's would never ask anything for itself--that it is precisely
such as he who have no pride when they ask for another, sacrificing
even that for that other's sake.

Following her own thoughts, Mrs. Harrington looked pensively into
the room where Agatha was sitting. The girl was playing, with a
little frown of concentration. The wonderful music close to her ear
was busy arousing that small possibility. Agatha did not know that
any one was looking at her. The two pink shades of the piano
candles cast a becoming light upon her face and form.

Mrs. Harrington's eyes came surreptitiously round. Luke also was
looking at Agatha. And a queer little smile hovered across Mrs.
Harrington's lips. The dream was assuming more tangible
proportions. Mrs. Harrington began to see her way; already her
inordinate love of power was at work. She could not admit even to
herself that Luke FitzHenry had escaped her. Women never know when
they have had enough.