“Well,” said he, “of course it would be too desperately wicked of you, Mrs Bayre, to see anything attractive enough to endanger your peace of mind in any man but Mr Bayre—”
He paused upon the name, and she suddenly looked up at him with an unaccustomed light of humour in her eyes. And when their eyes met they both laughed outright.
“After all,” said she, desperately, “why should I deny it to you? Why should I not acknowledge that I did find something in this handsome young friend of yours which made me feel that it would be wiser not to see him again? I’m very human, I’m afraid. And—my life has not been a very happy one. Where’s the harm of owning that I’m only a woman, especially when I’m trying, trying hard, hard to be an honourable and good one—for my child’s sake!”
Bayre could not answer, but he nodded ferociously two or three times in sympathetic assent.
“Now,” said she, “you must go. Already my landlady, who knows me as the pink of discretion, will be wondering who you are.”
“That’s all right,” said Bayre, smiling. “Tell her the truth. Tell her I’m your nephew.”
At that her youth got the better of her and she burst out laughing.
“The truth will not always bear to be told,” said she. “In this case I’m sure I shall not venture it.”
Before he reached the door she rushed to the mantelpiece and took from it a large unframed photograph of herself in the dress she had worn on the concert platform that evening.
“Take this souvenir of your aunt,” said she, demurely, “and write on it that it’s a present to her dutiful nephew. Good-bye.”