“He is dead,” the young man went on, as though in answer to it. “He died when I was about five years old, and I remember him scarcely at all.”
“I don’t remember either father or mother,” she said. “I had a very unhappy childhood, and things that happened then make me shudder even now. Just at the time it was hardest—when I couldn’t possibly have borne any more—Aunt Peace discovered me. She adopted me, and I’ve been happy ever since, except for all the misery I can’t forget.”
“She’s not really your aunt, then?”
“No. Legally, I am her daughter, but she wouldn’t want me to call her ‘mother,’ even if I could.”
The talk in the other room had become merely monosyllables, with bits of understanding silence between. Iris went back, and Mrs. Irving thanked her prettily for the song.
“Thank you for listening,” she returned.
“Come, Aunt Peace, you’re nodding.”
“So I was, dearie. Is it late?”
“It’s almost ten.”