“Please understand,” she said slowly, glancing at him sideways, “I don’t want you to say anything, and I don’t know what you can have to say. As for my being here, it’s very simple. If I had known that Brook Johnstone was your son before he had made our acquaintance, and that you were coming here, I should have gone away at once. As soon as I knew him I suspected who he was. You must know that he is like you as you used to be—except your eyes. Then I said to myself that he would tell you that he had met us, and that you would of course think that I had been afraid to meet you. I’m not. So I stayed. I don’t know whether I did right or wrong. To me it seemed right, and I’m willing to abide the consequences, if there are to be any.”
“What consequences can there be?” asked the grey-bearded man, turning his eyes slowly to her face.
“That depends upon how you act. It might have been better to behave as though we had never met, and to let your son introduce you to me as he introduced you to Clare. We might have started upon a more formal footing, then. You have chosen to say that we are old friends. It’s an odd expression to use—but let it stand. I won’t quarrel with it. It does well enough. As for the position, it’s not pleasant for me, but it must be worse for you. There’s not much to choose. But I don’t want you to think that I expect you to talk about old times unless you like. If you have anything which you wish to say, I’ll hear it all without interrupting you. But I do wish you to believe that I won’t do anything nor say anything which could touch your wife. She seems to be happy with you. I hope she always has been and always will be. She knew what she was doing when she married you. God knows, there was publicity enough. Was it my fault? I suppose you’ve always thought so. Very well, then—say that it was my fault. But don’t tell your wife who I am unless she forces you to it out of curiosity.”
“Do you think I should wish to?” asked Sir Adam, bitterly.
“No—of course not. But she may ask you who I was and when we met, and all about it. Try and keep her off the subject. We don’t want to tell lies, you know.”
“I shall say that you were Lucy Waring. That’s true enough. You were christened Lucy Waring. She need never know what your last name was. That isn’t a lie, is it?”
“Not exactly—under the circumstances.”
“And your daughter knows nothing, of course? I want to know how we stand, you see.”
“No—only that we have met before. I don’t know what she may suspect. And your son?”