"So why should I care?—as long as the public affords me an honest living! I know what I am, and have been. And the knowledge, so far, does not keep me awake at night."
She laughed—the sweet, fresh, unembarrassed laugh of innocence,—not that ignorance and stupidity which is called innocence, but innocence based on a worldly wisdom which neither her intelligence nor her experience permitted her to escape.
After a short silence he bent forward and laid one hand on a crystal which stood clasped by a tiny silver tripod on the table beside her bed.
"So you did develop your—qualities—after all, Athalie."
"Yes.... It happened accidentally." And she told him about the old gentleman who had come to her rooms when she stood absolutely penniless and at bay before the world.
After she had ended he asked her whether she had ever again seen his father. She told him. She told him also about seeing his mother.
"Have they anything to say to me, Athalie?" he asked wistfully.
"I don't know, Clive. Some day—when you feel like it—if you will come to me—"
"Thank you, dear ... you are wonderful—wonderfully good—"