“The time has come for frankness on my part. You set me an example, Lydia. You have the courage of your father. For months I have had it in my mind to tell you the truth about Frederic, but my courage has always failed me. Perhaps I use the wrong word. It may be something very unlike cowardice that has held me back. I am going to put a direct question to you first of all, and I ask you to answer truthfully. Would you say that Frederic is like--that is, resembles his father?” He was leaning forward, his manner intense. Lydia was surprised. “What an odd thing to say! Of course he resembles his father. I have never seen a portrait of his mother, but------” “You mean that he looks like me?” demanded Brood. “Certainly. What do you mean?” Brood laughed, a short, ugly laugh--and then fingered his chin nervously. “He resembles his mother,” he said. “When he is angry he is very much like you, Mr Brood. I have often wondered why he is unlike you at other times. Now I know. He is like his mother. She must have been lovely, gentle, patient------” “Wait! Suppose I were to tell you that Frederic is not my son?” “I should not believe you, Mr Brood,” she replied flatly. “What is it that you are trying to say to me?” He turned away abruptly. “I will not go on with it. The subject is closed. There is nothing to tell--at present.” She placed herself in front of him, resolute and determined. “I insist, Mr Brood. The time _has_ come for you to be frank. You must tell me what you meant by that remark.” “Has your mother never told you anything concerning my past life?” he demanded. “What has my mother to do with your past life?” she inquired, suddenly afraid. “I refer only to what she may have heard from your father. He knew more than any of them. I confided in him to a great extent. I had to unburden myself to someone. He was my best friend. It is not improbable that he repeated certain parts of my story to your mother.” “She has told me that you--you were not happy, Mr Brood.” “Is that all?” “I--I think so.” “Is that all?” he insisted. “When I was a little girl I heard my father say to her that your life had been ruined by--well, that your marriage had turned out badly,” she confessed haltingly. “What more did he say?” “He said--I remember feeling terribly about it--he said you had driven your wife out of this very house.” “Did he speak of another man?” “Yes. Her music-master.” “You were too young to know what that meant, eh?” “I knew that you never saw her after--after she left this house.” “Will you understand how horrible it all was if I say to you now that--Frederic is not my son?” Her eyes filled with horror. “How can you say such a thing, Mr Brood? He is your son. How can you say------” “His father is the man who wrote the accursed waltz he has just been playing! Could there be anything more devilish than the conviction it carries? After all these years, he------” “Stop, Mr Brood!”