"To see you. And you looked mightily glad to see me, at first. Don't tell me now, that you are not! But what have you been doing to yourself? London is killing you. You'd better come back to Africa, or you'll pass out. You're so thin I can see through you, and your eyes are too big for your face."
He sat down and they talked eagerly. She told him something of her disappointments, more of her hopes, and at last, of being obliged to take to the theatre as a stop-gap "until such time as she began to succeed in literature."
"But why work like this?" he said discontentedly. "You'll kill yourself burning two candles at once."
"Not I?" said she gaily. She had no intention of letting him know that but for her stage salary she would be penniless.
"I don't see any sense in it," he muttered. "It can't be because you like work. No woman ever yet liked work—they weren't meant to. Anyhow, you can knock off for to-day. Put your hat on and come out for a drive and to dinner. I'll drive you to your theatre afterwards."
"I'm afraid I can't," Poppy faltered. "I never go out ... I can't leave my work ... I am tired." She stopped lamely. He knew that she was not speaking the truth. The fact was, that she had given the little nursemaid an hour or two off.
"Ah! there's something you don't care to tell me," he said with a half-smile; but a shadow crossed his face. At that moment they were both transfixed by a sound. The king's son began to lament in the next room. Bramham would never have guessed, but he happened to see the look that leapt into her eyes at the sound; then he stood staring at her with a question in his, while the scarlet slowly mounted to her cheeks.
In truth, she was filled with confusion, and did not know what to say. She remembered the time she had accepted his offer of money and help; how she had talked to him then of her work and aspirations, but had breathed no word of this. How could he know that the truth had been hidden even from her? What could he think but that she had deceived him, made use of him?
The king's son cried again, indignantly, beseechingly. Again Bramham saw the mother-look leap to her eyes. With no word she flew from the room. When she returned she was carrying a little fragrant bundle, and she came to Bramham, who was apparently rooted to the spot where she had left him. He had heard her crooning to the child in the next room, but, like an unbelieving Thomas, he wanted still more proof. Her face gave it to him. Confusion was gone. Only tender, brooding peace and love was there. She held the baby under his eyes.
"My son, Charlie!"