"
"Forgive me," he said. "You must remember that I am still her lover."
They had reached the tree that leant a little forward beyond its fellows,
and he had halted and turned so that he was facing her. "Did she and
your father get on together. Was she happy?"
"I don't think she was happy," answered Joan. "She was at first. As a
child, I can remember her singing and laughing about the house, and she
liked always to have people about her. Until her illness came. It
changed her very much. But my father was gentleness itself, to the end."
They had resumed their stroll. It seemed to her that he looked at her
once or twice a little oddly without speaking. "What caused your
mother's illness?" he asked, abruptly.
The question troubled her. It struck her with a pang of self-reproach
that she had always been indifferent to her mother's illness, regarding
it as more or less imaginary. "It was mental rather than physical, I
think," she answered. "I never knew what brought it about."
Again he looked at her with that odd, inquisitive expression.
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