of some _liaison_
before his marriage; and Mrs. Abbott, taking charge of them for
payment, had connived at the story of their origin, of their pitiful
desertion. What could be clearer?

She did not go further in luminous conjectures. Even with her present
mind, Alma could not conceive of Mary Abbott as a wanton, of Harvey
Rolfe as a shameless intriguer; but it stung her keenly to think that
for years there had been this secret between them. Probably the matter
was known to Mrs. Abbott's husband, and so, at his death, it had
somehow become possible for Harvey to suggest this arrangement, whereby
he helped the widow in her misfortunes, and provided conscientiously
for his own illegitimate children. Harvey was so very conscientious
about children!

Did they resemble him? She had seen the little girl, but only once, and
without attention. She would take an early opportunity of going over to
Gunnersbury, to observe. But no such evidence was necessary; the facts
stared one in the face.

That Harvey should have kept this secret from her was intelligible
enough; most men, no doubt, would have done the same. But it seemed to
Alma only another proof of her husband's inability to appreciate her.
He had no faith in her as artist; he had no faith in her as woman. Had
she not felt this even from the very beginning of their intimate
acquaintance? Perhaps the first thing that awakened her interest in
Harvey Rolfe was the perception that he did not, like other men, admire
her unreservedly, that he regarded her with something of criticism. She
could attract him; she could play upon his senses; yet he remained
critical. This, together with certain characteristics which
distinguished him from the ordinary drawing-room man, suggestions of
force and individuality, drew her into singular relations with him long
before she dreamt that he would become her husband. And his attitude
towards her was unchanged, spite of passionate love-making, spite of
the tenderness and familiarity of marriage; still he viewed her with
eyes of tolerance, rather than of whole-hearted admiration. He
compared, contrasted her with Mary Abbott, for whose intellect and
character he had a sincere respect. Doubtless he fancied that, if this
secret became known to her, she would sulk or storm, after the manner
of ordinary wives. What made him so blind to her great qualities? Was
it that he had never truly loved her? Had it been owing to mere chance,
mere drift of circu