He waited a moment.
"So!" he growled, "the Howth blood does not blush to go down into the slime of the gutter?
is sufficient to itself ?" A cool, attentive motion,--that was all.

Then she stooped to tie her sandals.

The old man watched her, irritated.

She had been used to the keen scrutiny of his eyes since she was a baby, so was cool under it always.

The face watching her was one that repelled most men: dominant, restless, flushing into red gusts of passion, a small, intolerant eye, half hidden in folds of yellow fat,--the eye of a man who would give to his master (whether God or Satan) the last drop of his own blood, and exact the same of other men.
She had tied her bonnet and fastened her shawl, and stood ready to go.
"Is that all you want ?" he demanded.