"Did you find out——?" he began, but she broke in quickly, reading his thought.
"He was—my uncle—my father's brother. Nora told me everything. You've blamed me in your thoughts, Jim——"
"No, Moira——"
"Yes, I know," she insisted, "but I couldn't forget the long years of his kindness—until I knew what—what had happened—the horror of it. I ran away—here. Even then I did not tell them everything. And when they went to take him, it was too late. He's gone."
"You poor child. You've suffered——"
"I wanted to go to you, Jim—that night when they came to the studio. I wanted to—and again at Nice. But I was afraid, Jim."
"Afraid——"
"Of myself—if I had gone to you then ... our love had been so sweet a thing, Jim—so pure and beautiful. I couldn't let it be anything else. I had never known what love was before. I am afraid," she whispered.
"But not now, dear?"
"No. Not of myself or of you. Only afraid that it's all a dream—that I'll wake up imprisoned by vows that may not be broken——"