For a moment Mr. Challoner’s hardness, his involuntary condemnation of weakness of any sort, of failure to keep a promise, returned to him, mixed with a very ugly thing, suspicion.
“And is this the first time you have seen or spoken to him or had any communication with him?” he asked.
Helen raised her eyes to him in quiet surprise. No trace of resentment or sense of injustice was in her voice.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “I should have told you otherwise.”
He looked at the sweet, patient face, struggling for a moment with this worse self of his, which yet was so upright, so devoted.
“I know you would,” he said at last. “I don’t know why I asked you that.”
Helen laughed.
“Nor do I,” she said.
“You and he have been very patient, Helen,” he said.
“Yes, till this morning I think we have,” she said. “But to-day, perhaps, the spring was too strong for us both. Is it not in your blood this morning, father? It is in mine.”