ce, there was no sign of the
high-strung, fresh young force that he vaguely divined within her.

"Dulcie," he said, "how much do you know about the romance of your
mother?"

She lifted her grey eyes to his:

"What romance?"

"Why, her marriage."

"Was that a romance?"

"I gather, from your father, that your mother was very much above him
in station."

"Yes. He was a gamekeeper for my grandfather."

"What was your mother's name?"

"Eileen."

"I mean her family name."

"Fane."

He was silent. She remained thoughtful, her chin resting between two
fingers.

"Once," she murmured, as though speaking to herself, "when my father
was intoxicated, he said that Fane is my name, not Soane.... Do you
know what he meant?"

"No.... His name is Soane, isn't it?"

"I suppose so."

"Well, what do you suppose he meant, if he meant anything?"

"I don't quite know."

"He _is_ your father, isn't he?"

She shook her head slowly:

"Sometimes, when he is intoxicated, he says that he isn't. And once he
added that my name is not Soane but Fane."

"Did you question him?"

"No. He only cries when he is that way.... Or talks about Ireland's
wrongs."

"Ask him some time."

"I have asked him when he was sober. But he denied ever saying it."

"Then ask him when he's the other way. I--well, to be frank, Dulcie,
you haven't the slightest resemblance to your father--not the
slightest--not in any mental or physical particular."

"He says I'm like mother."

"And her name was Eileen Fane," murmured Barres. "She must have been
beautiful, Dulcie."

"She was----" A bright blush stained her face, but this time she
looked steadily at Barres and neither of them smiled.

"She was in love with Murtagh Skeel," said Dulcie. "I wonder why she
did not marry him."

"You say her family objected."

"Yes, but what of that, if she loved him?"

"But even in those days he may have been a troublemaker and
revolutionist----"

"Does that matter if a girl is in love?"

In Dulcie's voice there was again that breathless tone through which
something rang faintly--something curbed back, held in restraint.

"I suppose," he said, smiling, "that if one is in love nothing else
matters."

"Nothing matters," she said, half to herself. And he looked askance at
her, and looked again with increasing curiosity.

Westmore called across the room:

"Thessalie and I are going shopping! Any objections?"

A sudden and totally unexpected dart s