"The law can take no action unless I invoke its aid," said he. "And that is something I shall never do," he added, with finality. "I wish I could be sure of that," she murmured, wistfully. He came to his feet. "You may be sure of it," he said, with dignity. "Possess your soul in peace, if that is all that is troubling it." "Sit down," she said, a strange huskiness in her voice. He obeyed her. "Your father left a certain part of his fortune to me. There was no provision made for Viola. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes. I know all about that," said he, plainly bewildered. "On the other hand, he did not impose any restrictions upon you. You are at liberty to dispose of your share by will, as you see fit, madam. I am not likely to deny my step-sister what is rightfully hers. And that reminds me. She is not my blood relation, it's true. But she is my step-sister. That settles another point. I could not ask my step-sister to be my wife. The law would--" "Now we have come to the point where I shall answer the question you asked a while ago," she interrupted, straightening up in her chair and regarding him with a fixed, steady light in her eyes that somehow seemed to forewarn him of what was about to be revealed. "I said it would prove two things to me. One of them was that you are the same kind of man that your father was before you. I mean if you had said you could not ask Viola to be your wife." She paused, and then went on slowly, deliberately. "I lived with your father for nearly twenty years. In all that time he never asked me to be his wife." At first he stared blankly at her, uncomprehending. Then a slow, dark flush spread over his face. He half-started up from his chair. "You--you mean--" he stammered. "He never asked me to be his wife," she repeated without emotion. He sank back, incredulous, dumbfounded. "My God! Am I to understand that you--that you were never married to my father?" "Yes. I waited twenty years for him to ask me to marry him,--but he never did." He was still somewhat stupefied. The disclosure was so unexpected, so utterly at odds with all his understanding that he could not wholly grasp its significance. Somewhat footlessly he burst out: "But surely you must have demanded--I mean, did you never ask him to--to marry you?" Her eyebrows went up slightly. "How could I?" she inquired, as if surprised by the question. "I had not sunk so low in my own estimation as that, Kenneth Gwynne. My bed was made the day I went away with him. Some day you may realize that even such as I may possess the thing called pride. No! I would have died rather than ask him to marry me. I chose my course with my eyes open. It was not for me to demand more than I gave. He was not a free man when I went to him. He made no promises, nor did I exact any." She spoke in the most matter-of-fact way. He regarded her in sheer wonder.