"I did not think,"—he began, and then he checked himself guiltily.
"You did not think?" she repeated.
He began to recognize his indiscretion.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I was going to make a blunder."
She sat down in the hammock, with the child in her arms.
"You were going to say that you did not think I cared so much for my children," she said, gently. "Do you suppose I did not know that? Well, perhaps it was not a blunder. Perhaps it is only one of my pretences."
"Don't speak like that," he implored.
The next instant he saw that tears had risen in her eyes.
"No," she said. "I will not. Why should I? It is not true. I love them very much. However bad you are, I think you must love your children. Of course, my saying that I loved them might go for nothing; but don't you see," she went on with a pathetic thrill in her voice, "that they love me? They would not love me, if I did not care for them."
"I know that," he returned remorsefully. "It was only one of my blunders, as I said. But you have so bewildered me sometimes. When I first returned I could not understand you. It was as if I found myself face to face with a creature I had never seen before."