“Young shaver,” pursued Mr. Welsh, cheerily, rubbing his hands together, and taking up his newspaper, as a hint to his nephew to be gone, “you had best return to your inn, and begin to pull out the threads of that elaborate and gorgeous piece of Gobelin your mother has furnished you with. Believe me, under the coloured worsted and floss silk, you will come on very vulgar canvas. It is a sad pity that you should have learned that you are not the son of Stephen Saltren. You might well have been left to share the common belief. Perhaps it was inevitable that you should discover the flaw in your nativity. Some women cannot hold their tongues. I am not sure that the Babylonians acted unwisely when on the occasion of their revolt against Darius, they strangled every woman in the city except their cooks, for, they argued, men can get along without the sex in every other capacity.” The young man was profoundly disturbed. He looked up, and said in a voice that expressed his emotion— “Uncle, do not jest with me in this matter. To me it is one of deadly earnest. I entreat you speak the truth, for—good heavens! If I am not what I supposed myself to be, I have made a terrible mistake.” “You are no more a son of Lord Lamerton than I am. Marianne—I mean, your mother—thinks I am ignorant of the real facts, but I never was, though I said nothing at the time or after.” “Then you know who my father was.” “Yes, I do—but I am not disposed to tell you.” “I insist on knowing.” “You ought never to have been told that you were not what you and the world supposed. Now don’t attempt to lift the embroidered veil your good mother has cast over the mystery. The veil is handsomer than what it conceals.” “But—I have acted on the supposition that I was the son of Lord Lamerton.” “I know you have, and more fool you. You have left your situation as tutor in his house and a respectable income.” “I have done more. I have persuaded Miss Inglett to run away with me.” “You have—what?” Mr. Welsh dropped his hands and the paper; he stood for a moment in blank amazement. Then the blood rushed into his brow, and his hands clenched. “You have—you dare not repeat those words.” “It is true. I supposed she was my sister.” “You dirty little blackguard!” cried Welsh, losing all control over himself and his tongue; he sprang towards his nephew, brandishing the newspaper. “I will horsewhip you with the only weapon I have, the _Daily News!_ You coxcomb! You infamous snob! I’m ashamed to acknowledge you as my sister’s child.” “I know that I have made a terrible mistake.”