Another pause. Doris had not stirred.
"Still—I must tell you frankly—I am afraid there may have been about him something not satisfactory. I only conjecture this, for my mother has said nothing of the kind. She is by nature extraordinarily reserved; and she scarcely ever mentions him. He may, possibly, have done something which she does not like to tell. But that my father was a gentleman, I have no doubt."
Doris made an indistinct sound.
"By the wish of this friend, who undertook my education, I have been very little with my mother and sisters. He has insisted on keeping me as much as possible away from them."
She managed to say, "That must make things difficult."
"It makes things very difficult. When we do meet, there is a gulf which nothing can bridge over. Our lives, our aims, our whole outlook— are different. I suppose the separation was wrong. But I had no responsibility there. Nothing now can undo the past."
"And this friend—does he still wish you to keep away from them?"
"The same as ever. And though he has no real control over me, we owe him much. Besides—he makes other things depend upon—this!"—in a lower tone.
Another break. "You have sisters," Doris observed.
"Two. One of them has inherited—as I hope I have—the instincts of gentle blood. Poor little Winnie! But—Jane—"