“Ask what you please, Mrs. Meade. I am too much your friend to take offense at your plain speaking,” he replied encouragingly; and, without any further preamble, she queried:
“In that unfortunate love affair of yours, Mr. Norman, was there any prospect of—a—child?”
“No!” he answered quickly, almost angrily, yet she saw the hot color shoot up to his brow, and his glance fell before hers.
She sighed, and exclaimed:
“Then I’m all at sea again, for, to tell you the truth, Mr. Norman, I’ve been half believing all this time that Pet here was your own child!”
He started as if shot, and, dropping into a seat again, caught Pet’s hand and drew him forward, scrutinizing his beautiful features with eager eyes:
“Can’t you see that he has your eyes, your features?” exclaimed Mrs. Meade triumphantly, and, with something like a groan, he muttered:
“And something of her, too!” he said. “That smile, those dainty dimples, how like, how like! Now I understand what drew my heart so strongly to the child. Mrs. Meade,” looking up at her with blazing eyes, “you must answer now the question I asked you first: How is it that Pet and Mrs. Falconer know each other so well?”
And, for answer, she began at the first meeting of Mrs. Falconer and the child, and related all that had taken place since, dwelling strongly on their mutual passionate attachment for each other, and on the lady’s eager desire to adopt the child.
“I will tell you the truth, Mr. Norman: I strongly suspect that this beautiful lady is the child’s own mother, and if there is no chance that the little one can be yours, why, then I ought to let her have him, maybe. I refused because I thought he was yours,” she said.