‘Perhaps. But whatever quarrel may have parted those two, your claim on your father remained. You had not been hard or cruel; yet he abandoned you—tacitly renounced all claim upon you when he left his father’s house. I don’t want to blame him, Lucille; I don’t want to spoil that idealised image which you carry in your heart; but surely it is not for you to sacrifice a very real affection in the present for a vague memory of the past.’ ‘It is not vague. My memory of those days is as vivid as my memory of yesterday—more vivid even. I have but to close my eyes—now, at this very moment while you are talking to me—and I can see my father’s face; it is not your voice I hear, but his.’ ‘Infatuation, Lucille,’ exclaimed the surgeon sadly. ‘Had you known your father a few years longer, you might have discovered that he was utterly unworthy of your love—that fond confiding love of a child’s guileless heart, prone to make for itself an idol.’ ‘If I had found him unworthy, I do not believe my love would have altered; I should only have been so much the more sorry for him. Remember, I am used to hear him badly spoken of. My grandfather’s bitterest words have never lessened my love for him.’ ‘Granted that your love for him is indestructible, why should it stand between you and me—if I am not quite indifferent to you? Answer me that question first, Lucille; I am too much in earnest to be satisfied with half knowledge. Do you care for me, ever so little?’ She looked round at him for the first time, smiling, yet with tearful eyes—an expression that was half mournful, half arch. ‘Ever so little,’ she repeated. ‘I might own to that. It does not commit me to much.’ ‘More than a little, then? O, be frank, Lucille! I have shown you all the weakness—or the strength—of _my_ heart.’ ‘I love you very dearly,’ she said shyly. She was clasped to his breast before the words were half spoken, the kiss of betrothal pressed upon her trembling lips. She withdrew herself hastily from that first fond embrace. ‘You have not heard half that I have to say, Mr. Davoren.’ ‘I will never consent to be Mr. Davoren again.’ ‘I will call you Lucius, then; only you must hear what I have to say. I do love you, very truly,’ with a warning gesture that stopped any farther demonstration on his part; ‘I do think you good and brave and noble. I am very proud to know that you care for me. But I can bind myself by no new tie until the mystery of my father’s fate has been solved, until I am very sure that he will never claim my love and my obedience.’ ‘If I were to solve that mystery, Lucille—or at least attempt to solve it,’ said Lucius thoughtfully. ‘Ah, if! But you would never think of that! You could not spare time and thought for that; you have your profession.’