“He told you who he was?”
Without waiting for his answer she gravely corrected herself.
“I should have said, who we are.”
She smiled a faint apology:
“I have always been called Lydia Orr; it was my mother’s name. I was adopted into my uncle’s family, after father—went to prison.”
Her blue eyes met his pitying gaze without evasion.
“I am glad you know,” she said. “I think I shall be glad—to have every one know. I meant to tell them all, at first. But when I found—”
“I know,” he said in a low voice.
Then because as yet he had said nothing to comfort her, or himself; and because every word that came bubbling to the surface appeared banal and inadequate, he continued silent, gazing at her and marveling at her perfect serenity—her absolute poise.
“It will be a relief,” she sighed, “When every one knows. He dislikes to be watched. I have been afraid—I could not bear to have him know how they hate him.”