hing
nor say anything which could touch your wife. She seems to be happy with
you. I hope she always has been and always will be. She knew what she
was doing when she married you. God knows, there was publicity enough.
Was it my fault? I suppose you've always thought so. Very well,
then--say that it was my fault. But don't tell your wife who I am unless
she forces you to it out of curiosity."

"Do you think I should wish to?" asked Sir Adam, bitterly.

"No--of course not. But she may ask you who I was and when we met, and
all about it. Try and keep her off the subject. We don't want to tell
lies, you know."

"I shall say that you were Lucy Waring. That's true enough. You were
christened Lucy Waring. She need never know what your last name was.
That isn't a lie, is it?"

"Not exactly--under the circumstances."

"And your daughter knows nothing, of course? I want to know how we
stand, you see."

"No--only that we have met before. I don't know what she may suspect.
And your son?"

"Oh, I suppose he knows. Somebody must have told him."

"He doesn't know who I am, though," said Mrs. Bowring, with conviction.
"He seems to be more like his mother than like you. He couldn't conceal
anything long."

"I wasn't particularly good at that either, as it turned out," said Sir
Adam, gravely.

"No, thank God!"

"Do you think it's something to be thankful for? I don't. Things might
have gone better afterwards--"

"Afterwards!" The suffering of the woman's life was in the tone and in
her eyes.

"Yes, afterwards. I'm an old man, Lucy, and I've seen a great many
things since you and I parted, and a great many people. I was bad
enough, but I've seen worse men since, who have had another chance and
have turned out well."

"Their wives did not love them. I am almost old, too. I loved you, Adam.
It was a bad hurt you gave me, and the wound never healed. I married--I
had to marry. He was an honest gentleman. Then he was killed. That hurt
too, for I was very fond of him--but it did not hurt as the other did.
Nothing could."

Her voice shook, and she turned away her face. At least, he should not
see that her lip trembled.

"I didn't think you cared," said Sir Adam, and his own voice was not
very steady.

She turned upon him almost fiercely, and there was a blue light in her
faded eyes.

"I! You thought I didn't care? You've no right to say that--it's wicked
of you, and it's cruel. Did you think I married you for your mon