I was not present when they met; I do not even know how long they were together. Sometime before dinner O'Rane came into the library and sat down in front of the fire without speaking. From his haggard face I guessed that he had been taken as much by surprise as any of us. During dinner he roused himself with an effort, and I remember that we discussed the coming unrestricted submarine campaign, the danger of starvation, the inadequacy of our food control and the likelihood of finding America ranged on our side in the war. We talked very earnestly—I believe, very intelligently,—as though we had a critical audience and were shewing our best form; but it was wonderfully unengrossing.
"It's just a year since I was in America," I remember beginning in preface to some new argument.
"I say—she told you everything, didn't she?" O'Rane interrupted.
"Yes."
He forced a smile.
"It rather—brings it home to one, doesn't it?"
"And yet—is this any worse for you than when they were living together?"
"I was really not thinking of myself for the moment. My God, Stornaway, if you were a woman and hated a man as she hates Grayle, how would you like to be feeling that he'd had anything to do with your child, how'd you like to go through all this hell of childbirth to bear him, a child? All your life, even if you came to love it or at least to be kind to it, you'd always be reminded, wouldn't you? You'd trace a likeness, it would seem to get stronger and stronger.... I wonder what we should do?"
"I imagine most women would try to stop the child being born."
O'Rane looked up quickly.