They had seen very little of each other since his return. Adams, indeed, had purposely avoided her as much as it is possible for one person to avoid another when both are dwelling in the same house.
The pride of manhood warned him against this woman who was rich and the daughter of the man from whom he received a salary.
Maxine knew nothing of the pride of manhood; she only knew that he avoided her.
She was dressed entirely in white with a row of pearls for her only ornament. She had just returned from some social function, and Adams as he rose to meet her noticed that she had closed the door.
“Dr. Adams,” said the girl, “forgive me for disturbing you at this hour. For days I have wished to speak to you about my father. I have put it off, but I feel I must speak—what has happened to him?”
She took a seat in an armchair, and Adams stood before her with his back to the mantelpiece and his hands behind him.
The big man did not answer for a moment. He stood there like a statue, looking at his questioner gravely and contemplatively, as a physician looks at a patient whose case is not quite clear.
Then he said, “You notice a change in your father?”
“No,” said Maxine, “it is more than a change. He is quite different—he is another man.”
“When we were hunting out there,” said Adams, “Captain Berselius had an accident. In trying to rescue a servant he was caught by an elephant and flung some distance; he hurt his head, and when he recovered consciousness his memory was quite gone. It slowly returned——” He paused, for it was impossible to give details, then he went on—“I noticed, myself, as the memory was returning, that he seemed changed; when he had fully recovered his memory, the fact was obvious. He was, as you say, quite different—in fact, just as you see him now.”