His face darkened.
“Thank heaven you did not tell him! I am at least no—”
He checked himself with an effort.
“See here,” he said: “You—you mustn’t speak to any one of what you have told me—not for the present, anyway. I want you to promise me.”
Her slight figure sagged wearily against the back of her chair. She was looking up at him like a child spent with an unavailing passion of grief.
“I have promised that so many times,” she murmured: “I have concealed everything so long—it will be easier for me.”
“It will be easier for you,” he agreed quickly; “and—perhaps better, on the whole.”
“But they will not know they are being paid—they won’t understand—”
“That makes no difference,” he decided. “It would make them, perhaps, less contented to know where the money was coming from. Tell me, does your servant—this woman you brought from Boston; does she know?”
“You mean Martha? I—I’m not sure. She was a servant in my uncle’s home for years. She wanted to live with me, so I sent for her. I never spoke to her about—father. She seems devoted to me. I have thought it would be necessary to tell her—before— He is coming in September. Everything will be finished by then.”