"That depends upon how you act. It might have been better to behave as though we had never met, and to let your son introduce you to me as he introduced you to Clare. We might have started upon a more formal footing, then. You have chosen to say that we are old friends. It's an odd expression to use--but let it stand. I won't quarrel with it. It does well enough. As for the position, it's not pleasant for me, but it must be worse for you. There's not much to choose. But I don't want you to think that I expect you to talk about old times unless you like. If you have anything which you wish to say, I'll hear it all without interrupting you. But I do wish you to believe that I won't do anything nor say anything which could touch your wife. She seems to be happy with you. I hope she always has been and always will be. She knew what she was doing when she married you. God knows, there was publicity enough. Was it my fault? I suppose you've always thought so. Very well, then--say that it was my fault. But don't tell your wife who I am unless she forces you to it out of curiosity." "Do you think I should wish to?" asked Sir Adam, bitterly. "No--of course not. But she may ask you who I was and when we met, and all about it. Try and keep her off the subject. We don't want to tell lies, you know." "I shall say that you were Lucy Waring. That's true enough. You were christened Lucy Waring. She need never know what your last name was. That isn't a lie, is it?" "Not exactly--under the circumstances." "And your daughter knows nothing, of course? I want to know how we stand, you see." "No--only that we have met before. I don't know what she may suspect. And your son?" "Oh, I suppose he knows. Somebody must have told him." "He doesn't know who I am, though," said Mrs. Bowring, with conviction. "He seems to be more like his mother than like you. He couldn't conceal anything long." "I wasn't particularly good at that either, as it turned out," said Sir Adam, gravely. "No, thank God!" "Do you think it's something to be thankful for? I don't. Things might have gone better afterwards--" "Afterwards!" The suffering of the woman's life was in the tone and in her eyes. "Yes, afterwards. I'm an old man, Lucy, and I've seen a great many things since you and I parted, and a great many people. I was bad enough, but I've seen worse men since, who have had another chance and have turned out well." "Their wives did not love them. I am almost old, too. I loved you, Adam. It was a bad hurt you gave me, and the wound never healed. I married--I had to marry. He was an honest gentleman. Then he was killed. That hurt too, for I was very fond of him--but it did not hurt as the other did. Nothing could." Her voice shook, and she turned away her face. At least, he should not see that her lip trembled. "I didn't think you cared," said Sir Adam, and his own voice was not very steady. She turned upon him almost fiercely, and there was a blue light in her faded eyes.