“I have called them Joan and Nancy,” Doris was saying.  “You expressed no preference, you know.”

“Which is—­is—­mine?” Thornton whispered the question that somehow made him flush with shame.

“I do not know!” It was whisper meeting whisper.

“You—­what?” Thornton turned blazing eyes upon the woman by his side.  Her answer did not seem to shock him so much as it revealed what he had suspected—­Doris was playing with him, making him absurd by that infernal power of hers that he had all but forgotten.  He recalled, too, with keen resentment her ability to transform a tragic incident into one of humour—­or the reverse.

“I do not know.  I never have known,” Doris was saying.  “You see, I was afraid of heredity if I had to deal with it.  Without knowing it I could be just to both children; give them the only possible opportunity to overcome handicaps.  I thought they might reveal themselves—­but so far they have not.  They are adorable.”

“This is damnable!  Someone shall be made to speak—­to suffer—­or by God!——­”

The words were hardly above a whisper, but the tone frightened the children.

“Auntie Dorrie!” they pleaded, and stretched out entreating arms.

“Come, darlings.  The play is over and you did it beautifully.”

They ran to her, clambered into her lap, and turned doubting eyes upon Thornton.

“You—­expect me to—­to—­take both?” he asked, still in that low, thick tone.

“Certainly not.  One is mine.  I shall demand my rights, be quite sure of that.”

“This is the most outrageous thing I ever heard of!” Thornton was at bay; “the most immoral.”

“I have often thought that it might be,” Doris returned, her lips against Nancy’s fair hair, “but the more you consider it the more you are convinced that it is not.  It is simply—­unusual.”  The tone defied understanding.  “You must consider what I have done, George, step by step.  I did not act rashly.  And when we come to actual contact with all the truth confronting us, you and I will have to be very frank.  May I send the children away?  It is time for their nap.”  Already Doris’s finger was pressing the electric button cunningly set in the coping of the fountain.

“Yes, do.  There is much to say,” Thornton muttered and, not having heard the bell, was startled at seeing the nurse appear at once.  He looked up, and Mary looked at him.  The girl felt the atmosphere.  Thornton made a distinct impression upon her.

Left alone with Doris, Thornton drew his chair close to hers and waited for her to begin.

“Well,” he said, “what have you to say?  It would seem as if you might have a great deal, Doris.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“I suppose you did this to humiliate me—­defeat me?” Thornton’s lips twitched.

“On the contrary, after the first I gave you very little thought, George.  I was concerned in making sure the future of Meredith’s child.”