“Of course,” he answered, beating his forehead; “the child of”—
After all, it was a long lapse of time. I told him my mother’s name.
“She was my one real love,” he said, shedding tears. “I recall her among the peats of Killarney as if it were to-day. When she died (she is dead, isn’t she?) I buried my heart in her grave. I have never known a moment’s happiness since. Speak to me of her, Dinorah.”
He followed me up a little later, when Patty was sitting with me, and peeped round the door.
“May I—daughter Di?” he said. I believe he had really in the interval been looking among his notes, or letters, and with such benefit to his memory that he felt secure, at least, in that monosyllabic compromise. Blame my fond heart, thou fripon. I was softened even in my desperate disillusionment by this half recognition. With a father, fashionable and well-connected, possibly rich, to safeguard my interests, I need no longer fear the light.
Receiving no answer, he sidled himself into the room, and to a sofa, on which he sat down. Patty, dropping her work, looked at him with all her might of astonishment.
“And is this dear child your sister?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered; “from the very first.”
“Twins?” he exclaimed. “I am very sure there is no such entry.”
He sat frowning at the carpet for a little. Then, “Wait,” he said. “It is my misfortune to serve small beer.” And with these enigmatic words laid himself down and fell asleep.