“Dad?” the Hermit questioned feebly. “Is David Linton your father?” She nodded, and for a minute he was silent. “No wonder you and I were friends!” he said. “But you’re not all—not even you and Davy.”
“No, but—”
He forced a smile, in pity for her perplexity.
“Dear little girl, you don’t understand,” he said. “There’s something even friendship can’t wipe out, though such friendship as your father’s can bridge it over. But it’s always there—a black, cruel gulf. And that’s disgrace!”
Norah could not bear the misery of his eyes.
“But if it’s all a horrible mistake?” she said. “If everybody knew it—?”
“If it’s a mistake!”
The Hermit’s hand was on her wrist like a vice. For a moment Norah shivered in fear of what her words might have done.
“What do you mean? For God’s sake, tell me?”
She steadied her voice to answer him bravely.