orth 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