"I have often thought that it might be," Doris returned, her lips against Nancy's fair hair, "but the more you consider it the more you are convinced that it is not. It is simply--unusual." The tone defied understanding. "You must consider what I have done, George, step by step. I did not act rashly. And when we come to actual contact with all the truth confronting us, you and I will have to be very frank. May I send the children away? It is time for their nap." Already Doris's finger was pressing the electric button cunningly set in the coping of the fountain. "Yes, do. There is much to say," Thornton muttered and, not having heard the bell, was startled at seeing the nurse appear at once. He looked up, and Mary looked at him. The girl felt the atmosphere. Thornton made a distinct impression upon her. Left alone with Doris, Thornton drew his chair close to hers and waited for her to begin. "Well," he said, "what have you to say? It would seem as if you might have a great deal, Doris." "I have nothing to say." "I suppose you did this to humiliate me--defeat me?" Thornton's lips twitched. "On the contrary, after the first I gave you very little thought, George. I was concerned in making sure the future of Meredith's child." "Did you forget that she was also mine?" "I tried to. After a bit, I did--after the identities of the babies became blurred. If you stop to think and are just, you will understand that I took a desperate chance to accomplish the most good to Meredith's child. That is all that seemed to count. Suppose you could claim your child now, would its future be as secure as it would be with me? Have you really the child's interest at heart--you, who left its mother to----" "The mother--left me! Don't overlook facts, Doris." Thornton's face flamed angrily. "Yes. In self-defence she left you!" Doris held him with eyes heavy with misery. "I knew everything necessary to know, George, that enabled me to take this step." "But not enough to make you pause and consider!" A bitterness rang in the words. "There are some occasions when one cannot, dare not, consider," said Doris. Thornton got up and paced the room. Suddenly he turned like a man at bay. "But the inheritance?" he flung out. "I told you, George, it was the inheritance that forced me to it." "I mean--" here Thornton's eyes fell--"I mean the money," he stammered. "I see!" Doris's voice trembled; then she hastened on: "The money you sent, George, has never been touched. I have waited for this hour." "And your revenge!" muttered Thornton. "I had not considered it in that light." A deep contempt throbbed in the words. "When I remember I am not bitter, but I am filled, anew, with a desire to save Meredith's child!" "At the risk of passing her off as the child of--whom?" And then Doris smiled--a long, strange smile that burnt its way into Thornton's consciousness.