“Why not?” said she.

“Why not?  Well, it is fortunate for you that those people have a knowledge for the most part of the fundamental properties of the drama of life, such as bread-and-butter, and a table from which to eat it, and a knife with which to cut it, and a bed in which to sleep, and a stove and coal, and so on, and so on, and that the artistic accessories, such as Royal Sevres, which is no better than common crockery for the honest purpose of holding the tea for the solace of the thirsty mouth of labor, is beneath their attention.”

“How does the child look, Lyman?” asked Cynthia Lennox.  She was leaning back in a great crimson-covered chair before the fire, a long, slender, graceful shape, in a clinging white silk gown which was a favorite of hers for house wear.  The light in the room was subdued, coming mostly through crimson shades, and the faint, worn lines on Cynthia’s face did not show; it looked, with her soft crown of gray hair, like a cameo against the crimson background of the chair.  The man beside her looked at her with that impatience of his masculine estate and his superior youth, and yet with the adoration which nothing could conquer.  He had passed two-thirds of his life, metaphorically, at this woman’s feet, and had formed a habit of admiration and lovership which no facts nor developments could ever alter.  He was frowning, he replied with a certain sharpness, and yet he leaned towards her as he spoke, and his eyes followed her long, graceful lines and noted the clear delicacy of her features against the crimson background.  “How the child looked—­how the child looked; Cynthia, you do not realize what you did.  You have not the faintest realization of what it means for a woman to keep a lost child hidden away as you did, when its parents and half the city were hunting for it.  I tell you I did not know what the consequences might be to you if it were found out.  There is wild blood in a city like this, and even the staid old New England stream is capable of erratic currents.  I tell you I have had a day of dreadful anxiety, and it was worse because I had to be guarded.  I dared scarcely speak to any one about the matter.  I have listened on street corners; I have made errands to newspaper offices.  I meant to get you away if—­ Well, never mind—­I tell you, you do not realize what you did, Cynthia.”

Cynthia glanced at him without moving her head, then she looked away, her face quivering slightly, more as if from a reflection of his agitation than from her own.  “You say you saw her,” she said.

“This afternoon,” the man went on, “I got fairly desperate.  I resolved to go to the fountain-head for information, and take my chances.  So down I went to Maple Street, where the Brewsters live, and I rang the front-door bell, and the child’s aunt, a handsome, breathless kind of creature, came and ushered me into the best parlor, and went into the next room—­the sitting-room—­to call the others.  I caught sight of enough women for a woman’s club in the sitting-room.  Then Andrew Brewster came in, and I offered my legal services out of friendly interest in the case, and in that way I found out what I wanted to.  Cynthia, that child has not told.”