Isabel Stewart felt that she could not bear the painful interview any longer, and was about to touch the electric button to summon her servant to show her visitor out, when he stayed her with a gesture of appeal.
"One moment more, Isabel, I implore," he exclaimed; "then I will go, never to trouble you again."
Her beautiful hand dropped by her side, and she turned again to him with a patient, inquiring glance.
"You have spoken of our—child," the man went on, eagerly, though a flush of shame dyed his face as he gave utterance to the pronoun denoting mutual possession. "Do you intend to continue your search for her?"
"Certainly; that will now be the one aim of my life. I could never take another moment of comfort knowing that my old friend and my child were destitute, as I have been led to believe they are."
"And if—you find her—shall—you tell her—your history?" faltered Gerald Goddard, as he nervously moistened his dry lips.
His companion bent her head in thought for a moment. At length she remarked:
"I shall, of course, be governed somewhat by circumstances in such a matter; if I find Edith still in ignorance of the fact that she is an adopted daughter, I think I shall never undeceive her, but strive to be content with such love as she can give me, as her mother's friend. If, on the other hand, I find that she has learned the truth—especially if she should happen to be alone in the world—I shall take her into my arms and tell her the whole story of my life, beg her to share my future, and let me try to win as much as possible of her love."
"If you should find her, pray, pray do not teach her to regard me as a monster of all that is evil," pleaded her companion, in a tone of agony that was pitiful. "Ah, Isabel, I believe I should have been a better man if I could have had the love of little children thrown about me as a safeguard."