It was an awkward remark to counter, so Blanche kept up her pathetic wail. “It would be like the touch of my own child, just to see your daughter.” “You shall,” said he, and walked to the door. This movement was ahead of its cue, so she hastened to exclaim: “Yes, but not now—wait till I’m myself again. Cardy, can you—will you let me come into your life again?” “We can discuss that later, I wish to show you my daughter first.” He went straight to his sitting-room. “Mornice,” he said. “Our landlady—she—she’s your mother. I want you to come with me.” Mornice gasped, but made no articulate reply. Hand in hand, they entered Mrs. Montmorency’s boudoir. It occupied a full five seconds before Mrs. Montmorency grasped the situation; when she did, she sat bolt upright and exclaimed, “O God!” in the most colloquial way imaginable. Mornice said nothing, which in the circumstances was the best thing to do. “Well,” said Eliphalet, “is there anything to be gained by continuing the scene?” Mrs. Montmorency rose and gave herself away. “Well, you were earning a good living, weren’t you?” she demanded of Mornice. “My—er—friend didn’t like children, and I had my own way to make. Then when I met Mr. Montmorency abroad, and told him about you, he couldn’t be bothered.” “Yes, I quite understand,” said Mornice. “Girls should be made to look after themselves.” Eliphalet cut in with “I think all that is necessary has been said.” Blanche breathed desperately through her nose. She had lost ground, and saw no hope of regaining it. As a last cast—a final appeal to the emotions, she volunteered to faint. “I’m going off!” she cried. “Quick—brandy!” Her faltering gestures indicated the cellarette very concisely. Eliphalet poured a measure into a convenient glass, and she gulped at it greedily. Then the faint—an unconvincing affair of eyelid work and hand-twitching—took place. From a kind of innate chivalry they waited until such a time as she thought fit to recover. “We will say good-bye, Blanche,” said Eliphalet. “Your daughter and I have our packing to do. Is there anything else you wish to say to her?” “No, there isn’t,” came the uncompromising reply. “Good-bye, then.” “But I’ll say this to you, though,” said Blanche. “You are a pig—that’s what you are—an old pig!” They went out, closing the door as her similes climbed the ladder of abuse in a ringing crescendo. Later, as they drove through the cool night air, toward the hotel, Eliphalet thoughtfully said: “You were right, my dear; it wouldn’t have been any good. But it’s a pity for you.” “Why?” she answered, laying her warm little hand in his. “I’ve got a Daddy fatherums, haven’t I?” CHAPTER XI CLOUDS