"He couldn't. But of course he meant you to know. Mr. Stirling is an old friend of theirs, and he has always insisted on keeping Dick away from his people. He doesn't even like it to be known that Dick belongs to them—so you mustn't tell anyone, please, without his leave. It is only for you and father."
"I suppose you are aware that, when one marries, there are settlements, and lawyer's inquiries, and everything has to come out."
Doris looked puzzled.
"Perhaps that could be got over," she suggested, with pleasing vagueness. "Or—there might be no settlements. And Dick does intend to speak to Mr. Stirling, only not until he has seen father. Mr. Stirling won't like his coming here. But really, now that Dick is close upon twenty-seven years old, he surely has a right to decide for himself."
Mrs. Winton had again difficulty in holding back what she felt.
"All this ought to show you how utterly impossible the whole thing is," she said; and there was a fresh silence.
"But, mother, it is—Dick!" came at length. "It's not other people, and relations, and settlements. It is just—my Dick. If you only knew what he is, you would understand! It is—Dick himself."
She suddenly saw those pleading grey eyes, felt the grasp of those strong shapely hands, heard the tender musical voice,—and nothing else mattered. Mrs. Winton's touch came on hers, a trifle heavily, yet with real feeling.
"If you knew what he is to me, mother!"
"My dear, whatever he has been to you, he has not behaved rightly."