"Of course I should," Gorham admitted; "but I can't consider any alternative. Admiration and respect are all very well as far as they go, but they are no guarantee when a good-looking, impulsive youngster is concerned."
"I know, dear," Eleanor continued, quietly. "A man came into my life once whom I admired and respected with all my strength, yet I never loved him."
Gorham paused abruptly and looked at his wife with the same strange expression which she occasionally noted upon his face.
"You never loved him?" he repeated.
"No, dear. He was a noble character, and he once did me a great service, but I never loved him. With Alice my one fear is that she may mistake respect for affection, and with her nature such an error would ruin her life."
"Some time you must tell me about him," Gorham insisted, still reverting to her chance remark.
Eleanor's face sobered. "Some time I will, but not now. It is all a part of that memory I am ever trying to forget—a bright lining to that heavy cloud. Some time, dear, but not now."
"Suppose I have a little chat with Alice before dinner," Gorham said, changing the subject abruptly. "The child must not think that I am neglecting her. I must make her realize how proud I am of her."
"Do," Eleanor replied. "I will follow you in a few moments." She sank upon a convenient seat as her husband disappeared indoors. Here, half an hour later, still communing with the early twilight as it deepened into dusk, Alice and her father found her, when they came out from the house, arm in arm. Who shall say what spring the words unconsciously released, conjuring up before her unwilling mental vision a picture of the years gone by? Who shall explain the apprehensiveness which came unbidden, causing known certainties to be forgotten because of the disquieting questionings which demanded an unanswerable reply.
"I have dropped my flower!" Alice exclaimed, as she searched up and down the walk.