“There’s something cheap about Clem,” Jim had once said in his heavy way. Delia Ralston roused herself and pressed her cousin closer. “Chatty, tell me,” she whispered.

            “There’s nothing more.”

            “I mean, about yourself…this thing…this…” Clem Spender’s voice was still in her ears. “You loved some one,” she breathed.

            “Yes. That’s over—. Now it’s only the child…And I could love Joe—in another way.” Chatty Lovell straightened herself, wan and frowning.

            “I need the money—I must have it for my baby. Or else they’ll send it to an Institution.” She paused. “But that’s not all. I want to marry—to be a wife, like all of you. I should have loved Joe’s children—our children. Life doesn’t stop…”

            “No; I suppose not. But you speak as if…as if…the person who took advantage of you…”

            “No one took advantage of me. I was lonely and unhappy. I met someone who was lonely and unhappy. People don’t all have your luck. We were both too poor to marry each other…and mother would never have consented. And so one day…one day before he said goodbye…”

            “He said goodbye?”

            “Yes. He was going to leave the country.”

            “He left the country—knowing?”

            “How was he to know? He doesn’t live here. He’d just come back—come back to see his family—for a few weeks…” She broke off, her thin lips pressed together upon her secret.

            There was a silence. Blindly Delia stared at the bold shepherd.

            “Come back from where?” she asked at length in a low tone.

            “Oh, what does it matter? You wouldn’t understand,” Charlotte broke off, in the very words her married cousin had compassionately addressed to her virginity.

            A slow blush rose to Delia’s cheek: she felt oddly humiliated by the rebuke conveyed in that contemptuous retort. She seemed to herself shy, ineffectual, as incapable as an ignorant girl of dealing with the abominations that Charlotte was thrusting on her. But suddenly some fierce feminine intuition struggled and woke in her. She forced her eyes upon her cousin’s.

            “You won’t tell me who it was?”

            “What’s the use? I haven’t told anybody.”

            “Then why have you come to me?”

            Charlotte’s stony face broke up in weeping. “It’s for my baby…my baby…”

            Delia did not heed her. “How can I help you if I don’t know?” she insisted in a harsh dry voice: her heart-beats were so violent that they seemed to send up throttling hands to her throat.

            Charlotte made no answer.

            “Come back from where?” Delia doggedly repeated; and at that, with a long wail, the girl flung her hands up, screening her eyes. “He always thought you’d wait for him,” she sobbed out, “and then, when he found you hadn’t…and that you were marrying Jim…He heard it just as he was sailing…He didn’t know it till Mrs. Mingott asked him to bring the clock back for your wedding…”

            “Stop—stop,” Delia cried, springing to her feet. She had provoked the avowal, and now that it had come she felt that it had been gratuitously and indecently thrust upon her. Was this New York, her New York, her safe friendly hypocritical New York, was this James Ralston’s house, and this his wife listening to such revelations of dishonour?

            Charlotte Lovell stood up in her turn. “I knew it—I knew it! You think worse of my baby now, instead of better…Oh, why did you make me tell you? I knew you’d never understand. I’d always cared for him, ever since I came out; that was why I wouldn’t marry any one else. But I knew there was no hope for me…he never looked at anybody but you. And then, when he came back four years ago, and there was no you for him any more, he began to notice me, to be kind, to talk to me about his life and his painting…” She drew a deep breath, and her voice cleared.