"No. I only knew that she would do it—soon. She had promised—both of us, you know."
"Have you never asked her to send me the message?"
"Never! How could I? I would not have held you to the compact. Nor would she."
"And have you not told her that you cared for me all these years? Didn't she know?"
"Listen, David," she said seriously. "My mother has never spoken of our compact. She did nothing to influence me. She was content to let time take its course—and nature, too. Ah, how wise she is! But all this time I have been conscious of a strange feeling that she was making me over anew with but one object in view. She wanted me to be all that you could expect, demand, exact, if you were to come some day to—to look me over, to see if I was—was worth the effort. Yes, David, she prepared me against this day. She worked with me, she planned, she denied herself everything to give me all that you might wish for in a—"
"My dear, you had everything to begin with," he began gallantly, but she checked him with a shake of her head.
"No, I did not. True, I had not been brought up as other circus children were. But I had a point of view that required years of training to destroy. We won't speak of my father. I don't like to think of him. David, as we used to know him, you and I. There was a time when he was different—and I loved him. But that was long before. I—I think he has gone out of my life altogether."
David realized then and there that she should not be kept in the dark regarding her father's whereabouts and designs. She was sensible, she was made of strong timber. She could face the conditions, no matter what they proved to be.
The thought was responsible for the irrelevant remark that followed. "I must have a word or two with Mrs. Braddock before I leave to-night."
She looked up quickly. "A word concerning—you and me?" she asked.