She admired the facility of her own response for not more
than a minute, for, giving her a kind, blindish smile, Marion walked
draggingly across the hearthrug and took up her position at the
disengaged side of the fireplace and rested her elbow on the
mantelpiece, even as Richard was doing at its other end. They stood side
by side, without speaking, their firelit faces glowing darkly like
rubies in shadow, their eyes set on the brilliantly lit tea-table and
its four chairs. They looked beautiful and unconquerable--this tall man
who could assail all things with his outstretched strength, this
broad-bodied woman whom nothing could assail because of her crouching
strength.

Marion stretched out her hand to the fire. Her insanely polished nails
glittered like jewels.

She said in that indifferent tone: "Well, it wasn't so bad."

Some passion shook him. "Mother! Mother! To think of him bringing that
woman into this house--to meet you and Ellen!"

"Hush, oh hush! He does not know."

"But, mother! He ought to! Anyone could see--"

"What she was. Yes, poor woman. But remember I made a bad job of Roger.
I gave him no brains."

"Mother--it mustn't happen again. She can't come here again."

She grew stern. "Richard, you must say nothing to Roger. Nor to her.
She's his love and pride. So far as he's concerned, she's a better woman
than I am. I never put my love and pride in his life. If you speak to
either of them you will ... add to my already heavy guilt. Besides ...
how can she hurt Ellen and me? She's very weak. We're very strong."

"But, mother, you saw what she was."

"More than you did. She's had a child not long since."

"A child?" He stared at her curiously, reverently. "How do you know?"

"Some people get a brown stain on their face when they're having a baby,
and afterwards it lingers on. I had it with you. Not with Roger. She has
it now." She slowly drew her fingers over her face, her eyes wide in
wonder. "It's a queer thing, birth...."

Ellen tingled with shame because such things were spoken of aloud, by
someone old. But Richard muttered huskily: "I wonder what the story
is...."

"Something horrible. She's come from a good home. Her teeth were well
looked after when she was a girl. That hair took some conscientious
torturing to make it what it is. She was caught, I suppose, by her love
of beauty. Did you ever hear anything more pathetic than her name--Poppy
Alicante?"

"I don't see anything more in