” “Do you mean,” Courtlaw asked, “that from now to the end of the six months you do not wish to see us—any of us?” Her eyes were a little dim again. ’ ‘Not dead, miss. ’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me. For hours after she had not been sensible to life, only to exquisite echoes. ’ ‘It’s too late for that,’ Gerald told her evenly. Good night!" She pressed his hand and went out. “Why did you lie to that man?” he asked fiercely. Then he rallied, smiling a little. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. And Mother trusted him.
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