He said:
“Of course,” very gravely.
“Then who was he? My mother never mentioned him in her letters. What became of him? He must have been my father. Is he living?”
“Did you ask Mr. Skeel?”
“Yes. He seemed too deeply affected to answer me. He must have loved my mother very dearly to show such emotion before me.”
“What did you ask him, Dulcie?”
“After we left the piano?”
“Yes.”
“I asked him that. I had only a few more moments alone with him before he left. I asked him about my mother—to tell me how she looked—so I could think 334 of her more clearly. He has a picture of her on ivory. He is to bring it to me and tell me more about her. That is why I must see him to-morrow—so I may ask him again about my father.”
“Yes, dear....” He sat very silent for a while, then rose, came over, and seated himself on the padded arm of Dulcie’s chair, and took both her hands into his: