I
remembered that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the
same way. Besides, a father confessor should be elderly, it is
not at all the role for a young man.
"My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish, "but my mother was
a Russian."
"Ah," I said, "now I understand--"
"Understand what?"
"A hint of something foreign--different--that there has always
been about you."
"My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, because
I never saw her. She died when I was quite a little child. I
believe there was some tragedy connected with her death--she took
an overdose of some sleeping draught by mistake. However that
may be, my father was broken-hearted. Shortly afterwards, he
went into the Consular Service. Everywhere he went, I went with
him. When I was twenty-three, I had been nearly all over the
world. It was a splendid life--I loved it."
There was a smile on her face, and her head was thrown back. She
seemed living in the memory of those old glad days.
"Then my father died.
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