“I suppose you want me to believe that it was love for me that brought you slinking to the theatre,” said the other ironically. “I don't expect you to believe anything. I was lonely. I wanted to be with you and Yvonne. Curse you! Can't you understand how lonely I've been all my life? Can't you understand how hungry I am for the affection that every other boy I've known has had from his parents? I've never asked you about my mother. I used to wonder a good deal. Every other boy had a mother. I never had one. I couldn't understand it. And they all had fathers, but they were not like my father. Their fathers were kind and loving, they were interested in everything their sons did--good or bad. I used to love the fathers of all those other lucky boys at school. They came often--and so did the mothers. No one ever came to see me--no one! “I used to wonder why you never told me of my own mother. Long ago I gave up wondering. Something warned me not to ask you about her. Something told me it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. I never inquired of anyone after I was old enough to think for myself. I was afraid to ask, so I waited, hoping all the time that you would some day tell me of her. But you've never breathed her name to me. I no longer wonder. I know now that she must have hated you with all the strength of her soul. God, how she must have hated to feel the touch of your hands upon her body! Something tells me she left you, and if she did, I hope she afterward found someone who--but no, I won't say it. Even now I haven't the heart to hurt you by saying that.” He stopped, choking up with the rush of bitter words. “Well, why don't you say something?” “I'm giving you your innings. Go on,” said Brood softly. “She must have loved you once--or she wouldn't have married you. She must have loved you or I wouldn't be here in this world. She------” “Ha!” came sharply from Brood. “--didn't find you out until it was too late. She was lovely, I know. She was sweet and gentle and she loved happiness. I can see that in her face, in her big, wistful eyes. You------” “What's this?” demanded Brood, startled. “What are you saying?” “Oh, I've got her portrait--an old photograph. For a month I've carried it here in this pocket-case over my heart. I wouldn't part with it for all the money in the world. When I look at the dear, sweet, girlish face and her eyes look back into mine, I know that _she_ loved me.” “Her portrait?” said Brood, unbelieving. “Yes--and I have only to look at it to know that she couldn't have hurt you--so it must have been the other way round. She's dead now, I know, but she didn't die for years after I was born. Why was it that I never saw her? Why was I kept up there in that damnable village------” “Where did you get that photograph?” demanded Brood hoarsely. “Where, I say? What interfering fool------”