It was plain that he could not think of her as his mother. She had never been his mother. He had never known her as such; she had played no part in his childhood. I knew that one of the questions I had asked myself was answered: the mere revelation of kinship had made no difference in his feeling for Marcia Lawrence. He loved her yet; he had that battle still to fight. And she—was it the same with her? What a hideous irony of fate!
"Mrs. Lawrence knew nothing of the story," I pointed out. "She may know nothing of it, even yet. She doesn't suspect that her child lived. I think her daughter means that she should never know, if it can be kept from her."
"Then she shall never know from me," he said, and took a deep breath. "I suppose that I'd better wait. Marcia can decide what's best to do. I—I don't think I quite realise what it all means," and he passed his hand before his eyes. "The best thing for me is to go to work. That'll give me something else to think about."
"That's right," I said. "Thinking about this won't do any good—nothing will."
"No," he agreed, his lips bloodless. "I begin to see that—to understand——"
The door opened, and the office boy came in.
"Telegram, Mr. Lester," he said, and gave it to me.
It was:
"Our Elizabeth correspondent wires Miss Lawrence home noon to-day.
"Godfrey."