Lestwick made no answer, he did not turn, he stood still, as though waiting patiently for Allan to complete his remarks, and then when silence fell, Lestwick went slowly on his way.
Allan made his way homeward, with a feeling of anger in his breast. He had done all that a man might do, and he had been repulsed. No wonder that Betty, poor little Betty, felt horror and loathing for the man.
"Is he sane, is he normal?" Allan questioned himself. "There is something—about him—" he shuddered. "I can't understand it, I never loathed a human being in my life, as I loathe that man, but Betty——"
What could he do about Betty, how unravel the tangle, how straighten out that very winding path of the child's life? She loved him, had she not said it a hundred times with tears and with pleading? Yet was it the real love? The one passion of a life-time? He doubted it, for Allan Homewood held himself in no high esteem and could not think of himself as one for whom any woman would care deeply. No, it could not be that, it must be the strange tie that united them, that lifting of the curtain that had revealed to them both a glimpse into some strange past that was not of this life.
What, did she want of him? What did she expect, ask of him? But whatever it was, how impossible it all was!
To-day he had kissed Kathleen, his wife, as never before had he kissed her and remembering this, a softer, more tender look came into his face.
What was Kathleen thinking now? Had he surprised, even frightened her, was she hurt or angry, or could she understand and forgive that sudden wave of passion that had come to him? Love and passion for her—his own wife! His cheeks flushed a little, it seemed to him that all his little world was in strange and dire confusion.
Mrs. Hanson, standing at her own gate, tall, erect, and brown of face, beady of eyes, bobbed to him an exaggerated respectful curtsey.
Allan lifted his hat to her.
"Good morning!"