David was sharply cognizant of a feeling of repugnance. Much that had puzzled him a moment before was perfectly plain to him now. She championed the father because he had been stronger in her creation than the mother.
"Did Mrs. Braddock prosecute her claim in person?" he asked, subduing the impulse to set his friend right in the eyes of this girl.
"Not at all. She kept out of sight. Lawyers did it all."
"Did your father say where she was living at the time?"
"Oh, I know where she was living in London."
"London?" he said, suddenly cold.
"Yes. We saw her there, Centennial year. She had a home in one of those nice little West End streets. Of course, we could have nothing to do with her."
"Of course not," murmured he dumbly. "And Christine?"
"She was at the Sacred Heart Convent in Paris,—at school, you know. Father wrote me about her."
He could not ask her the sickening question that was in his mind: was Mary Braddock the woman in the case? But his heart was cold with despair. He could not, would not believe it of her, and yet the circumstances were damnably convincing.