Yes, it was a mere matter of time. Sooner or later she would put a leading question--her methods being bravely candid and direct. Of course, it was open to him to meet that question with blank denial, open to him to lie--as is the practice of the world when such damnably awkward situations come along.--A solution having, in the present case, the specious argument behind it that in so doing he would spare her, save her pain, in addition to the obvious one that he would save his own skin. Moreover, if he lied he could trust Damaris' loyalty. Whether she believed it or not, she would accept his answer as final. No further question upon the subject would ever pass her lips. The temptation was definite and great. For might not the lie, if he could stomach his disgust at telling it, even serve to prolong the life of the child? Should he not sell his honour to save his honour--if it came to that? Thus he debated, his nature battling with itself, while at that battle he stoically, for a time, looked on. But when, at last, the climax was reached, and Damaris commenced to speak, stoicism dragged anchor. For he could conquer neither his disgust nor his sorrow, could find courage neither for his denial nor for watching the child die. Leaving the foot of the bed, he went and sat down in the arm-chair, where the dimity curtain screened Damaris from his, and him from Damaris' sight. "Commissioner Sahib," she began, her voice grave and low, "it has come back to me--the thing I had to ask you, but it is very hard to say. If it makes you angry, please try to forgive me--because it does hurt me to ask you. It hurts me through and through. Only I can't speak of it. I oughtn't just to leave it. To leave it would be wrong--wrong by you." "Very well, my darling, ask me then," he said, a little hoarsely. "You have heard about my being out on the Bar and--and all that?" "Yes," he said, "I have heard." "Captain Faircloth, who found me and brought me home, told me something." Damaris' voice broke into tones of imploring tenderness. "I love you, Commissioner Sahib, you know how I love you--but--but is what Captain Faircloth told me true?" Whereupon temptation surged up anew, inviting, inciting Charles Verity to lie--dressing up that lie in the cloak of most excellent charity, of veritable duty towards Damaris' fine courage and her precious innocence. And he hedged, keeping open, if only for a few minutes longer, the way of escape. "How can I answer until I know what he did tell you?" he took her up, at last, almost coldly. "That he is your son--is my brother," Damaris said. Even at this pass, Charles Verity waited before finally committing himself, thereby unwittingly giving sentiment--in the shape of the Powers of the Air--the chance to take a rather unfairly extensive hand in the game.