outside contacts modified the pungent vitality of their relations with each other.
She sat a moment in thought and then she said, gently:—
"You are mistaken if you think that I should be easily upset by anything you would care to tell me. Not that I want to urge your confidence."
"Oh, it's not a matter of confidence," exclaimed Pheasant. "Everybody in the world knows it but you, and of course, you'll hear it sooner or later, so I may as well tell you."
She laid the apple on the grass, and, clasping her ankles in her brown hands, sat upright, with the air of a precocious child, and announced: "I'm illegitimate—what Gran in her old-fashioned way calls a bastard. There you are." A bright color dyed her cheeks, but she flung out the words with pathetic bravado.
"I am sorry," murmured Alayne, "but you do not suppose that that will affect my feelings for you, do you?"
"It does most people's." The answer came in a low husky voice, and she went on hurriedly: "My father was the only child of an English colonel. His parents doted on him. He was the delight of their old age. My mother was a common country girl and she left me on their doorstep with a note, exactly the way they do in books. They took me in and kept me, but it broke the old people's hearts. They died not long after. My father—"
"Did you live with him?" Alayne tried to make it easier for her by a tone of unconcern, but her eyes were filled with tears of pity for the child who in such quaint phraseology—"the delight of their old age," indeed—told of the tragedy of her birth.
"Yes, till I was married. He just endured me. But I expect the sight of me was a constant reminder—of what he'd lost, I mean."
