“No, I ran up-stairs.”
“And cried.”
“And cried, ’Steban.”
“How did you feel?” he asked, curiously.
“How did I feel?” she repeated, musingly. “I felt, just for one dreadful minute, sick and faint and dizzy. It seemed as if the whole world were tumbling to pieces. Of course she had been jealous before, but in such little ways that I didn’t mind. This was such bad jealousy that it staggered me. I thought, ‘Is this my own mother?’ Then when it came over me that she wasn’t, I didn’t care so much. I suppose own mothers are never jealous?”
“Sometimes they are,” he muttered.
Nina drew a long breath. “Then a home like this must be a purgatory.”
“I could tell you stories,” he said, hurriedly, “but pshaw!—you haven’t the nerve. I will not hasten your knowledge of the ugly secrets of life. I suppose, child, you would have been glad to see me walking in just then?”
“I put your picture on the pillow,” she said, fervently; “I built a little fort of handkerchiefs around it, all but the eyes, to keep the tears off—”
She broke off, for his black, scintillating eyes were bent on her with the expression that she did not like. “I had only you to turn to,” she said, coldly. “Will you tell me some more about my real parents?”