“And yet,” said Ste. Marie, gently, “it must have been hard sometimes.”  He pictured to himself that roving existence lived among such people as O’Hara must have known, and it sent a hot wave of anger and distress over him from head to foot.

But the girl said:  “I had my father.  The rest of it didn’t matter in the face of that.”  After a little silence she said, “M.  Ste. Marie!”

And the man said, “What is it, Mademoiselle?”

“You spoke the other day,” she said, hesitating over her words, “about my aunt, Lady Margaret Craith.  I suppose I ought not to ask you more about her, for my father quarrelled with his people very long ago and he broke with them altogether.  But—­surely, it can do no harm—­just for a moment—­just a very little!  Could you tell me a little about her, M. Ste. Marie—­what she is like and—­and how she lives—­and things like that?”

So Ste. Marie told her all that he could of the old Irishwoman who lived alone in her great house, and ruled with a slack Irish hand, a sweet Irish heart, over tenants and dependants.  And when he had come to an end the girl drew a little sigh and said: 

“Thank you.  I am so glad to hear of her.  I—­wish everything were different, so that—­I think I should love her very much if I might.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Ste. Marie, “will you promise me something?”

She looked at him with her sombre eyes, and after a little she said:  “I am afraid you must tell me first what it is.  I cannot promise blindly.”

He said:  “I want you to promise me that if anything ever should happen—­any difficulty—­trouble—­anything to put you in the position of needing care or help or sympathy—­”

But she broke in upon him with a swift alarm, crying:  “What do you mean?  You’re trying to hint at something that I don’t know.  What difficulty or trouble could happen to me?  Please tell me just what you mean.”

“I’m not hinting at any mystery,” said Ste. Marie.  “I don’t know of anything that is going to happen to you, but—­will you forgive me for saying it?—­your father is, I take it, often exposed to—­danger of various sorts.  I’m afraid I can’t quite express myself, only, if any trouble should come to you, Mademoiselle, will you promise me to go to Lady Margaret, your aunt, and tell her who you are and let her care for you?”

“There was an absolute break,” she said.  “Complete.”

But the man shook his head, saying: 

“Lady Margaret won’t think of that.  She’ll think only of you—­that she can mother you, perhaps save you grief—­and of herself, that in her old age she has a daughter.  It would make a lonely old woman very happy, Mademoiselle.”

The girl bent her head away from him, and Ste. Marie saw, for the first time since he had known her, tears in her eyes.  After a long time she said: 

“I promise, then.  But,” she said, “it is very unlikely that it should ever come about—­for more than one reason.  Very unlikely.”