“Have you ever been in a motor-car before?” asked Quixtus. “Oh yes. Of course I have,” she replied in her rich little voice. “Daddy had one in Shanghai. He used to take me out in it.” Then her lips quivered and the tears started and she flung herself weeping against Clementina. “Oh, daddy! I want my daddy!” The essential feminine in Clementina sprang to arms. “Why did you start her off like this by talking of motor-cars?” “I’m dreadfully sorry,” said Quixtus. “But how was I to know?” “Just like a man,” she retorted. “No intuition worth a cent.” At dinner, a melancholy meal—theirs was the only table occupied in the vast, ghostly _salle à manger_—she apologised, in her gruff way. “I was wrong about the motor-car. How the deuce could you have known? Besides, if you talked to the child about triple-expansion boiler, her daddy would be sure to have had one at Shanghai. Poor little mite!” “Yes, poor little mite,” said Quixtus, meditatively. “I wonder what will become of her.” “That has got to be our look-out,” she replied sharply. “You don’t seem to realise that.” “I don’t think I do quite—even after what you said to me yesterday. I must accustom myself to the idea.” “Yesterday,” said Clementina, “you declared that you had fallen in love with her.” “Many a man,” replied Quixtus with a faint smile, “has fallen in love with one of your sex and has not in the least known what to do with her.” The grim setting of Clementina’s lips relaxed. “I think you’re becoming more human. And, talking of humanity—there’s a question that must be cleared up between us, before we settle down to this partnership. Are you intending to keep up your diabolical attitude towards Tommy Burgrave?” The question had been burning her tongue for over twenty-four hours; from the moment that he had appeared in the vestibule the day before, after his sleep, and seemed to have recovered from the extraordinary nervous collapse which had aroused her pity. With considerable self-restraint she had awaited her opportunity. Now it had come—and when an opportunity came to Clementina, she did not go by four roads to take it. Quixtus laid down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair. Knowing her attachment to the boy, he had expected some reference to his repudiation. But the direct question disconcerted him. Should he have to render equally sudden account of all the fantastic iniquities of the past? Then something he had not thought of before entered his amazed head. He had never countermanded the order whereby the allowance was automatically transferred from his own banking account to Tommy’s. He had intended to write the letter after having destroyed the will, but his reflections on plagiarism in wickedness which had led to the preservation of that document, had also caused him to forget the other matter entirely. And he had not thought of it from that day to this.