“Letty!” She bit her lips, with a little hard sob, and her fingers fell from his arm. “My God!” she cried, “how it all comes back! No one has called me that in twenty years.” Dr. Cheyney made no responsive movement or gesture; he stood looking at her quietly, curiously, a little sadly. He noted the dignity of figure, and certain fine lines of beauty that had rather matured than diminished, yet the change in her was for the worse in his eyes. Whatever there had been of passion and vanity and waywardness in her face in her youth had crystallized with maturity; there was a palpable worldliness in her manner which sharpened his conception of her as she must be now. The long gap in the years since he had known her as she was, until now, when she must be another person, was opened suddenly by the realization of the change in her, and it seemed to him that only a woman could change so much. Deeply moved herself, she was only half conscious of the criticism of his glance; she came back across the room after a moment and stood beside him, looking at the falling embers, the glow of the fire acting weirdly in its illumination of her face. “Tell me about him,” she said in a low voice; “I know he has lost nearly everything.” Dr. Cheyney’s lips tightened a little, and he frowned. “Why do you want to know?” he asked gravely. She blushed deeply and painfully. “You mean I have no right?” He nodded, looking at the fire. “Perhaps, I haven’t,” she admitted quickly, pleadingly. “But there is Diana--has he made her hate me?” “She thinks you dead,” Dr. Cheyney replied quietly. “Dead?” She shuddered, looking up with frightened eyes. Then her face blazed angrily. “What right had he to do it? What right--to make her believe a falsehood?” The old man’s eyes met hers gravely, rebukingly. “Wasn’t it the best way, Letty?” he asked gently. Her blush deepened again, her brow, her chin, even her throat were crimson. She bit her quivering lip until the blood came. “You are very cruel,” she said bitterly, “you righteous people!” Dr. Cheyney leaned heavily on the mantel, his eyes on the fire. “Would you have had us tell a little innocent child that, Letty? Tell her that her mother had deserted her and brought shame upon her?” “Do you mean that she has never known?” she cried, amazed. “Never. David did not wish her to know, and we respected his wish. She believes her mother died when she was three years old; she even has a deep and constant tenderness for the Shut Room.” She looked at him bewildered. “I do not understand.”