“Two years!” He repeated it without emotion. “No, I did not know she died. ’Tis a bad job.” He was quite still, his mind seemed to be turning over his own secret memories, but what he bent forward and suddenly said was: “Don’t say anything about it in there.” He nodded towards the inn. “No?” Orianda opened her crimson parasol. “You see,” he went on, again resting one foot on the axe-block and addressing himself more particularly to Gerald: “I’ve ... this is how it is. When I was left alone I could not get along here, not by myself. That’s for certain. There’s the house and the bar and the yard—I’d to get help, a young woman from Brighton. I met her at Brighton.” He rubbed the blade of the axe reflectively across his palm—“And she manages house for me now, you see.” He let the axe fall again and stood upright. “Her name’s Lizzie.” “O, quite so, you could do no other,” Gerald exclaimed cheerfully, turning to the girl. But Orianda said softly: “What a family we are! He means he is living with her. And so you don’t want your undutiful daughter after all, father?” Her gaiety was a little tremulous. “No, no!” he retorted quickly, “you must come back, you must come back, if so be you can. There’s nothing I’d like better, nothing on this mortal earth. My God, if something don’t soon happen I don’t know what _will_ happen.” Once more he stooped for the axe. “That’s right, Orianda, yes, yes, but you’ve no call to mention to her”—he glared uneasily at the inn doorway—“that ... that about your mother.” Orianda stared up at him though he would not meet her gaze. “You mean she doesn’t know?” she asked, “you mean she would want you to marry her if she did know?” “Yes, that’s about how it is with us.” Loughlin was amazed at the girl’s divination. It seemed miraculous, what a subtle mind she had, extraordinary! And how casually she took the old rascal’s—well, what could you call it?—effrontery, shame, misdemeanour, helplessness. But was not her mother like it too? He had grasped nothing at all of the situation yet, save that Nathaniel Crabbe appeared to be netted in the toils of this housekeeper, this Lizzie from Brighton. Dear Orianda was “dished” now, poor girl. She could not conceivably return to such a menage. Orianda was saying: “Then I may stay, father, mayn’t I, for good with you?” Her father’s eyes left no doubt of his pleasure. “Can we give Gerald a bedroom for a few days? Or do we ask Lizzie?” “Ah, better ask her,” said the shameless man. “You want to make a stay here, sir?” “If it won’t incommode you,” replied Loughlin. “O, make no doubt about that, to be sure no, I make no doubt about that.” “Have you still got my old bedroom?” asked Orianda, for the amount of dubiety in his air was in prodigious antagonism to his expressed confidence. “Why yes, it may happen,” he replied slowly.