"I never knew that," he said very quietly.
"Yes, our mother died when I was born; and Clo grew up in our father's care. Did she ever tell you about our father?"
"No. At least——"
"Then I shall. I've told Pierce. People ought to know. It helps them to understand.
"Our father was a spendthrift—a gambler—a man without any principles. If somebody stronger than himself had taken him in hand when he was young, things might have been different. But he began by ruling everybody who came in contact with him, until at last nobody dared to rule him.
"Can you imagine how a man like that would bring up a daughter—you who had a mother to help you in every year of your life?"
Her blue eyes darkened with intensity.
"Our home in Ireland is a big lonely house on the sea-coast. Imagine growing up in a house like that, without care or money or friends—for father drove all his friends away. Imagine Clo's life! Her only learning was what she got with our cousin from the schoolmaster of the nearest village; her only amusements were sailing and riding and fishing. She never had the love or friendship of a woman of her own class; she never knew what it was to be without the dread of debt or disgrace; and then, at eighteen, she married the first man who came into her life—not because she liked him—not because she wanted to marry, or knew what marrying was—but because he had saved our father's honour by paying his debt!"
She paused to take breath; but before Gore could speak, she went on again:
"Do you know what I always wonder, Walter, when I think of Clodagh?"