He had known all day that something was coming,
and had been cudgelling his brains finely. From the fervour of his
love for her, he felt an anxiety that was almost fear. What could
have happened last night--that first night of her entrance into
society--meddlesome, gossiping society! She slid down to the floor
against his knee. He could not see her face, could not even touch her;
for she had settled down on his right side. He mastered his tremors and
said:
"Well, Gyp--tired?"
"No."
"A little bit?"
"No."
"Was it up to what you thought, last night?"
"Yes."
The logs hissed and crackled; the long flames ruffled in the
chimney-draught; the wind roared outside--then, so suddenly that it took
his breath away:
"Dad, are you really and truly my father?"
When that which one has always known might happen at last does happen,
how little one is prepared! In the few seconds before an answer that
could in no way be evaded, Winton had time for a tumult of reflection.
A less resolute character would have been caught by utter mental
blankness, then flung itself in panic on "Yes" or "No." But Winton was
incapable of losing his head; he would not answer without having faced
the consequences of his reply. To be her father was the most warming
thing in his life; but if he avowed it, how far would he injure her love
for him? What did a girl know? How make her understand? What would her
feeling be about her dead mother? How would that dead loved one feel?
What would she have wished?
It was a cruel moment.
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