“It is not an impression,” haughtily; “I know it to be a fact.”
“How do you know it?”
“My father told me so, during his last illness.”
“Was—pardon me—was your father himself at the time? Was he—er—rational?”
“Rational! My father?”
“I mean—I mean was he himself—mentally? He was not delirious when he told you?”
“Delirious! Mr. Knowles, I am trying to be patient, but for the last time I warn you that I will not listen to insinuations against my father.”
“I am not insinuating anything. I am seeking information. Were you and your father together a great deal? Did you know him well? Just what did he tell you?”
She hesitated before replying. When she spoke it was with an exaggerated air of patient toleration, as if she were addressing an unreasonable child.
“I will answer you,” she said. “I will answer you because, so far, I have no fault to find with your behavior toward me. You and my—and my aunt have been as reasonable as I, perhaps, should expect, everything considered. Your bringing me here and providing for me was even kind, I suppose. So I will answer your questions. My father and I were not together a great deal. I attended a convent school in France and saw Father only at intervals. I supposed him to possess an independent income. It was only when he was—was unable to work,” with a quiver in her voice, “that I learned how he lived. He had been obliged to depend upon his music, upon his violin playing, to earn money enough to keep us both alive. Then he told me of—of his life in America and how my mother and he had been—been cheated and defrauded by those who—who—Oh, DON'T ask me any more! Don't!”