"You are free," she protested. "Anyhow, I'm not going to let any of that nonsense stand in my way. And don't you—church or no church. Life's too short." Her manner was hurried. She caught at Farvel's arm. "We're both free, Alan, so there's nothing more to say, is there? Except, good-by. Good-by, Alan,——"
Mrs. Milo interrupted. "But the child," she reminded. "Your daughter?"
"Daughter?" Sue turned to Balcome, questioning him, and half-guessing.
"Yes, my dear. Isn't it lovely? Mr. and Mrs. Farvel have a little girl."
"That's the one," Balcome explained, as if Clare was not within hearing. He jerked his head toward the hall. "The one that called her Auntie."
"Auntie?" Mrs. Milo seized upon the information. "You surely don't mean that the child calls her own mother Auntie?"
Clare broke in. "I'll tell you how that is," she volunteered. "You see"—speaking to Sue—"I've never told her I'm her mother. She thinks her mother's in Africa; her father, too. Because—because I've always planned to give her to some good couple—a married couple. Don't you see, as long as Barbara doesn't know, they could say, 'We are your parents.'"
"But you couldn't give her up like that!" cried Sue, earnestly.
"No," purred Mrs. Milo. "You must keep your baby. And, doubtless"—this with the ingratiating smile, the tip of the head, and the pious inflection—"doubtless you two will wish to re-marry—for the sake of the child."
"No!" cried Clare. "No! No! No!"