"Didn't you always?"
"Not enough--not nearly enough. But I do now. Let me tell you--Don't let me ever be afraid of you--oh, don't let me!" She had pushed him gently into a chair and was half kneeling on the floor beside him.
"Have you ever been afraid of me?"
"Oh, I don't know; a little perhaps sometimes! You don't know how silly I am. But not now. You are glad to see me?"
"Lizzie," he said, "God knows how glad I am! But it's my duty to ask you at once whether you've done anything wrong."
"Everything wrong you can think of!" she answered enthusiastically, "only nothing really wicked, of course. I'll tell you all about it. And oh, do remember you can't think worse of me than I do! Oh, it's glorious not to be afraid!"
"Of me?" His tone pleaded again.
"No, no--of anything! Of being found out. I'm glad you've come for me. I'm glad I've got to tell you everything--I did mean to go home next week, but I'm glad it's like this. Because now I know how much you care, and I might never have found that out if I hadn't listened at the door like a mean, disgraceful cat. I ought to be miserable because I've done wrong--but I'm not. I can't be. I'm really most frightfully happy."
"Thank God you can say that," he said, timidly stroking her hair with the hand that she was not holding. "Now I'm not afraid of anything you may have to tell me, my child--my dear child."
* * * * * To four persons the next day was one of the oddest in their lives.
Arriving early to take Betty to finish her sketch, the stricken Temple was greeted on the doorstep by a manly looking lady in gold-rimmed spectacles, short skirts, serviceable brown boots and a mushroom hat.
"I know who you are," said she; "you're Mr. Temple. I'm Betty Desmond's aunt. Would you like to take me on the river? Betty is busy this morning making the acquaintance of her step-father. She's taken him out in the little cart."
"I see," said Temple. "I shall be delighted to take you on the river."
"Nice young man. You don't ask questions. An excellent trait."
"An acquired characteristic, I assure you," said Temple, remembering his first meeting with Betty.
"Then you won't be able to transmit it to your children. That's a pity. However, since you don't ask I'll tell you. The old man has 'persistently concealed his real nature' from Betty. You'd think it was impossible, living in the same house all these years. Last night she found him out. She's as charmed with the discovery as a girl child with a doll that opens and shuts its eyes--or a young man with the nonentity he calls his ideal. Come along. She'll spend the morning playing with her new toy. Cheer up. You shall see her at dejeuner."