As she held her child to her heart, things seemed for a moment quite plain and possible. Why, Paul was Ariadne’s father! As soon as he was with her again, all would be well. It must be. Nothing could separate her from the father of her baby! They were one flesh now. There was still all their lifetime to grow to be one in spirit. She had only to try harder. They had simply started on a false track. They were so young. So many years lay before them. There was plenty of time to turn back and start all over again—there was plenty of time to—
“Oh, my dear! my dear!” Miss Burgess faltered weakly into the room and sank upon a chair.
Lydia sprang up, Ariadne still in her arms, and faced her for a long silent instant, searching her face with passion. Then she set the little girl down gently. “Run out and play, dear,” she said, and until the door had shut on the child she did not stir. Her hand at her throat, “Well?” she asked.
Miss Burgess began to cry into her handkerchief.
“It’s Paul!” said Lydia with certainty. She sat down.
The weeping woman nodded.
“He has left me,” Lydia continued in the same dry tone of affirmation. “I know. We had a quarrel, and he has left me.”
Miss Burgess looked up, quite wild with surprise, her sobs cut short, her face twisted. “Oh, no—no—no!” she cried, running across the room and putting her arms about the other. “No; it’s not that! He—he—the man who telephoned said they were testing the dynamo, and your husband insisted on—”
Lydia came to life like a swimmer emerging into the air after a long dive. “Oh, he’s hurt! He’s hurt!” she cried, bounding to her feet. “I must go to him. I must go to him!”
She tore herself away from the reporter and darted toward the door. The older woman ran after her, stumbling, sobbing, putting hands of imploring pity on her.