She was weeping quietly, as she had always done, but passionately and with abandonment.
She had misunderstood, he was an artist, and she knew he admired her beauty. She had thought he was angry that her loveliness would be marred, and she would be unsightly, hideous to him.
She wished he had not come back. Then he came in and took her into his arms.
“Don’t cry, little Daphne,” he said very tenderly, “I have guessed your secret, poor child, and you had not told me.”
“Are you angry with me?” she murmured. “I thought you would be pleased. Fancy … but I must whisper it.”
She was only a child, delicate and sensitive as a flower.
“I understand, Darling, but it came as a shock at first. Poor little Daphne! How you must have been worrying by yourself.”
“It doesn’t matter, only I thought you would be pleased,” and the light shone in her starry eyes. “I would have told you before you went away, only I did not like to.”
He burst into a wild discordant laugh, which frightened her.
“Oh, the Curse. This is real humour, only a joke of the worst taste.”