He shook his head.
"But you knew, and yet took her there?"
It was a hopeless job to try to exonerate himself. "Yes, there were reasons—I couldn't help it, in fact. But I'm afraid I should not be able to make you understand."
"No, never!" retorted Johanna, and squared her shoulders.
But there was more to be said—she had worse to learn before Ephie was handed over to her care.
"And Ephie has been very foolish," he began anew, without looking at her. "It seems—from what she has told me tonight—that she has been to see this man ... been at his rooms ... more than once."
At first, he was certain, Johanna did not grasp the meaning of what he said; she turned a blank face curiously to him. But, a moment later, she gave a low cry, and hardly able to form the words for excitement, asked: "Who ... what ... what kind of a man was he—this ... Schilsky?"
"Rotten," said Maurice; and she did not press him further. He heard her breath coming quickly, and saw the kind of stiffening that went through her body; but she kept silence, and did not speak again till they were almost at his house-door. Then she said, in a voice that was hoarse with feeling: "It has been all my fault. I did not take proper care of her. I was blind and foolish. And I shall never be able to forgive myself for it—never. But that Ephic—my little Ephie—the child I—that Ephie could ... could do a thing like this ..." Her voice tailed off in a sob.
Maurice struck matches, to light her up the dark staircase; and the condition of the stairs, the disagreeable smells, the poverty of wall and door revealed, made Johanna's heart sink still further: to surroundings such as these had Ephie accustomed herself. They entered without noise; everything was just as Maurice had left it, except that the lamp had burned too high and filled the room with its fumes. As Johanna paused, undecided what to do, Ephie started up, and, at the sight of her sister, burst into loud cries of fear. Hiding her face, she sobbed so alarmingly that Johanna did not venture to approach her. She remained standing beside the table, one thin, ungloved hand resting on it, while Maurice bent over Ephie and tried to soothe her.
"Please fetch a droschke," Johanna said grimly, as Ephie's sobs showed no signs of abating; and when, after a lengthy search in the night, Maurice returned, she was standing in the same position, staring with drawn, unblinking eyes at the smoky lamp, which no one had thought of lowering. Ephie was still crying, and only Maurice might go near her. He coaxed her to rise, wrapped his rug round her, and carried her, more than he led her, down the stairs.