Something moved her to fill in the gap. “If you will trust me in the sick-room,” she said, “I think I could be of use. May I not try?” He drew a hard breath and turned half from her as though he would go away. Roger, standing by and eagerly watching his every movement, prepared to accompany him, and then, realizing his mistake, drooped his head dejectedly and resigned himself to further inactivity. Arthur spoke with his face averted. “It is not a question of trust, Miss Thorold. It is you yourself that I have to consider. You don’t quite know what you are asking, and it is difficult for me to tell you.” “You need not mind telling me,” she said. He made a gesture of impotence. “I’ve got to tell you. That’s the hell of it. If you stay here, you’ve got to understand one thing. My father is suffering from heart-disease, and, as you know, the heart and brain are very closely connected. His brain is affected.” “I am not surprised at that,” Frances said. “In fact, I had suspected it before.” He turned upon her with that goaded expression which but for its suffering, might have intimidated her. “What made you do that? What has he said to you?” “Oh, nothing very much,” she answered gently. “I have thought him a little vague from time to time. I noticed that he never seemed to regard little Ruth as an actual belonging, for one thing.” “Go on!” he said grimly. “You have noticed more than that.” She faced him candidly. “‘Yes, I have. I have noticed a great lack of sympathy between him and his family for which I could not imagine they were to blame.” “You never blamed me?” he said. She hesitated. “I think I always knew that you were very heavily handicapped in some way,” she said. He nodded. “Yes, damnably. But I won’t attempt to deceive you of all people, so far as I am concerned. I have a brutal temper, and I hate him! I hate him from the bottom of my soul—just as he hates me!” “Oh, stop!” Frances said, shocked beyond words by the deadly emphasis with which he spoke. He uttered a sound that was half-laugh and half-groan. “You’ve got to know it. Yes, he is my father, but I only endure him for my mother’s sake. I have wished him dead for years. I wish it more than ever now.” “Oh, hush!” Frances said. “Please don’t say it! Don’t think it! You will be so sorry afterwards.” “Why should I be sorry?” he said sombrely. “Do you think I shall ever regret him? He who has all my life stood in the way of my gaining anything I hold worth having? It’s too late now. My chances are gone. And I don’t complain—even to you. As I say, his brain is affected. He suffers from delusions. I have got to bear with him to the end. So what is the good?” She could not answer him. Only, after a few seconds, she said quietly, “I think I should be too sorry for him to—hate him.” “I wonder,” said Arthur. He stood for a few moments looking at her. Then, very abruptly: “Is that by any chance the reason why you don’t hate me?” he said.