"It isn't his people--it's--it's his children." Marston became suddenly attentive. "His children? He's got children, has he?" "Yes, two; two little girls." That strengthened his point. "Then, my dear girl, you can't--in common decency--not tell him. Hang it all, you've got to give the man a chance." "A chance to escape? You talk as if I'd set a trap for him." "My dear child, you haven't sense enough to set a trap. But, since there are spring-guns in his neighbourhood, I repeat that you ought to inform him of the fact. I dare say he wouldn't funk a spring-gun on his own account, but he may not want his children to be hurt." "I know. He'd be afraid I should contaminate them. I wouldn't, Wilfrid, I wouldn't. I wouldn't hurt them for the world." "I'm sure you wouldn't. But he might think you would. The fathers of little girls sometimes have strange prejudices. You see it's all very well as long as you can keep him in his beautiful innocence. But, if he finds out that you've deceived him, he--well, he might resent it." He never turned his eyes from that livid, vulnerable spot, striking at it with the sword-thrust of his point. "A man can forgive many things in a woman, but not that." "I must risk it. He mayn't find out for years and years. If I tell him I shall lose him now." "Not necessarily. Not if he cares for you as much as I should say he does." "It doesn't matter how much he cares. He'd never marry me." "No. He might make another and more sensible arrangement." "And then?" She faced him with it. "Then you'll be satisfied. You'll have had your fling." "And--when--I've--had it?" she said slowly. "Then, I suppose, I shall have to take you back." "I see. That's where you think you'll come in." "I wasn't thinking, at the moment, of myself. The suggestion was thrown out entirely on your behalf, and I may say his. I'm simply telling you what--knowing you as I do--I consider the wiser course, for both of you." "You don't know. And you don't know him. He wouldn't do it. He isn't that sort." She paused, brooding over it. "Besides, I couldn't bear it. I can't go back to that." "And how many years do you think you'll stand being proper and respectable, which is what you'll have to be as long as you're Mrs. Robert Lucy? It's a stiffish job, my child, for you to tackle. Just think of the practical difficulties. I've accounted for the sudden, very singular collapse of your income, but there are all sorts of things that you won't be able to account for. The disappearance, for instance, of the entire circle of your acquaintance." She smiled. "It would be _much_ more awkward if it didn't disappear."