George Hagar."
A strange light shot from Telford's eyes. "Hagar is a fortunate man," he
said. Then dreamily: "You have a daughter. I wish to God that--that ours
had lived."
"You did not seem to care when I wrote and told you that she was dead."
"I do not think that I cared then. Besides"--
"Besides you loved that other woman, and my child was nothing to you," she
said with low scorn. "I have seen her in London. I am glad--glad that she
hates you. I know she does," she added. "She would never forgive you. She
was too good for you, and you ruined her life."
He was very quiet and spoke in a clear, meditative voice. "You are right.
I think she hates me. But you are wrong, too, for she has forgiven me."
"You have seen her?" She eyed him sharply.
"Yes, to-day." His look wandered to a table whereon was a photograph of
her daughter. He glanced at it keenly. A look of singular excitement
sprang to his eyes. "That is your daughter?"
She inclined her head.
"How old is she?" He picked up the photograph and held it, scrutinizing
it.
"She is seventeen," was the reply in a cold voice.
He turned a worn face from the picture to the woman. "She is my child.
You lied to me."
"It made no difference to you then. Why should it make any difference now?
Why should you take it so tragically?"
"I do not know, but now"--His head moved, his lips trembled.
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