He stared down blankly at the little lovely thing, and it stared back at him.
"Good God!" said he; "am I dreaming? I could swear that was Eve Carson's child!"
"Yes," said Poppy softly, and her voice was ci risuoniamo in cristallo. "It is. But how did you know?" she wonderingly asked.
Charles Bramham was dumb. He could only stare. Later, he sat down heavily in a chair and used his handkerchief.
"Life has held a good many surprises for me, but never one like this. Carson! ... and you!... He my dearest friend! You, well, you know what I feel about you. Yet you two have deceived me! Sprung this amazing thing on me. Why! I can't understand it.... Good God! I love that fellow! ... he could—?"
"Oh! Charlie, dear friend, you go too fast. Don't judge or misjudge. Nothing is as you think. He did not deceive you ... nor did I. That night you offered to help me and I accepted, I ... I didn't know that this wonderful thing was going to happen to me ... and he knows nothing. It is my secret."
Bramham digested these things as best he might. Later, he said:
"Well he's got to know—and I shall tell him. Why, he's not that sort of fellow at all, Rosalind ... he would throw everything to Hades for the sake of a woman he loved ... and, of course, he loves you, and would be here with you if he knew.... The whole thing is the craziest mystery I ever heard of ... of course, he can't know ... but I shall tell him, if I have to go up to Borapota after him."
"Never, never!" said she. "No one shall ever tell him. It is my secret. You dare not interfere. I would never forgive you."
He turned away from her, angry, sore, bitterly puzzled.