He smiled a little. “You didn’t suppose--or did you?--that I’d drifted into this without a fight; a long fight? At the hospital, where I first met her, I hadn’t any idea who she was. I’m not a New Yorker; I knew nothing of your set of people in New York. You never spoke to me of her--I never even knew you had a daughter.” It was true. In that other life she had led she had never spoken to any one of Anne. She had never been able to. From the time when she had returned to Europe, frustrated in her final attempt to get the child back, or even to have one last glimpse of her, to the day when her daughter’s cable had summoned her home, that daughter’s name had never been uttered by her except in the depths of her heart. A darkness was about her feet; her head swam. She looked around her vaguely, and put out her hand for something to lean on. Chris Fenno moved a chair forward, and she sat down on it without knowing what she was doing. He continued to stand in front of her. “You do believe me?” he repeated. “Oh, yes--I believe you.” She was beginning to feel, now, the relief of finding him less base than he had at first appeared. She lifted her eyes to his. “But afterward--” “Well; afterward--” He stopped, as if hoping she would help him to fill in the pause. But she made no sign, and he went on. “As I say, we met first in the hospital where she nursed me. It began there. Afterward she asked me to come and see her at her grandmother’s. It was only then that I found out--” “Well, and then--?” “Then I went away; went as soon as I found out.” “Of course--” “Yes; of course; only--” “Only--you came back. You knew; and yet you came back.” She saw his lips hardening again to doggedness. He had dropped into a chair facing hers, and sat there with lowered head, his hands clenched on his knees. “Naturally you’re bound to think the worst of me--” She interrupted him. “I’m still waiting to know what to think of you. Don’t let it be the worst!” He made a hopeless gesture. “What is the worst?” “The worst is that, having gone, you should ever have come back. Why did you?” He stood up, and this time their eyes met. “You have the right to question me about my own feelings; but not about any one else’s.” “Feelings? _Your_ feelings?” She laughed again. “And my own daughter’s--ah, but I didn’t mean to name her even!” she exclaimed. “Well, I’m glad you’ve named her. You’ve answered your own question.” He paused, and then added in a low voice: “You know what she is when she cares....” “Ah, don’t _you_ name her--I forbid you! You say you loved her, not knowing. I believe you.... I pity you.... I want to pity you.... But nothing can change the facts, can change the past. There’s nothing for you now but to go.” He stood before her, his eyes on the ground. At last he raised them again, but only for the length of a quick glance. “You think then ... a past like that ... irrevocable?”