The purity in which he delighted, and to which he so frequently and almost superstitiously had turned for refreshment and the safeguarding of all the finest instincts of his own very complex nature, would, although she remembered, remain essentially intact.  But, even so, the surface of it must be, as he apprehended, henceforth in some sort dimmed, and that by the breath of his own long ago misdoing.  The revelation of passion and of sex, being practically and thus intimately forced home on her, the transparent innocence of childhood must inevitably pass away from her; and, through that same passing she would consciously go forward, embracing the privileges and the manifold burdens, the physical and emotional needs and aspirations of a grown woman.  The woman might, would—­such was his firm belief—­prove a glorious creature.  But it was not she whom he wanted.  Her development, in proportion as it was rich and complete, led her away from and made her independent of him.—­No, it wasn’t she, but the child whom he wanted.  And, standing at the foot of Damaris’ bed, he knew, with a cruel certainty, he was there just simply to watch the child die.

Yes, it was a mere matter of time.  Sooner or later she would put a leading question—­her methods being bravely candid and direct.  Of course, it was open to him to meet that question with blank denial, open to him to lie—­as is the practice of the world when such damnably awkward situations come along.—­A solution having, in the present case, the specious argument behind it that in so doing he would spare her, save her pain, in addition to the obvious one that he would save his own skin.  Moreover, if he lied he could trust Damaris’ loyalty.  Whether she believed it or not, she would accept his answer as final.  No further question upon the subject would ever pass her lips.  The temptation was definite and great.  For might not the lie, if he could stomach his disgust at telling it, even serve to prolong the life of the child?  Should he not sell his honour to save his honour—­if it came to that?

Thus he debated, his nature battling with itself, while at that battle he stoically, for a time, looked on.  But when, at last, the climax was reached, and Damaris commenced to speak, stoicism dragged anchor.  For he could conquer neither his disgust nor his sorrow, could find courage neither for his denial nor for watching the child die.  Leaving the foot of the bed, he went and sat down in the arm-chair, where the dimity curtain screened Damaris from his, and him from Damaris’ sight.

“Commissioner Sahib,” she began, her voice grave and low, “it has come back to me—­the thing I had to ask you, but it is very hard to say.  If it makes you angry, please try to forgive me—­because it does hurt me to ask you.  It hurts me through and through.  Only I can’t speak of it.  I oughtn’t just to leave it.  To leave it would be wrong—­wrong by you.”

“Very well, my darling, ask me then,” he said, a little hoarsely.