"I don't know why I did it. Because if they'd ever traced me, what harm would it have done?—I wouldn't have gone back unless I was carried by main force. But the papers said I was dead. So I just set myself to keep the idea up. Next thing, I met you. Then I wasn't afraid of a shadow—I had something real to fear: losing you.
"But now I don't care what you think, or what you're going to do, or what you say. I'm not even going to let Alan Farvel think that Barbara's his—when she isn't."
He shot a swift look at her. So! The child was her own, after all!
His lip curled.
She understood. "Oh, get the whole thing clear while you're about it," she said indifferently. "I'm not trying to cover. At least I didn't lose sight of the child. Miss Milo praised me for that.—But—the truth is, I'm not like most other women. I'm not domestic. I never can be. Why worry about it."
"You take it all very cool, I must say! And you're jolly sure of yourself. Don't need help, eh? Highty-tighty all at once." But there was a note of respect in his voice.
"I've got friends," she said proudly. "And if I need help I know where to get it."
The maid entered. "Your tea is ready, Miss."
Clare stood up and put out a hand. "We'll run across each other again,
I suppose," she said cordially.
He could scarcely believe his ears—which were burning. "Oh, then you're not lighting out?"
"When I love little old New York so much? Not a chance! No, you can go and get your supper without a fear." She laughed saucily. Then as he turned, "Oh, don't forget the bird."