"Richard," she said--"You are a good man, and you hold very strong opinions about truth and honour and all that sort of thing. I don't believe you could ever understand badness--real, downright badness--could you?" "Badness? ... in that child?" he exclaimed. She gave an impatient, angry gesture. "Dear me, you are perfectly obsessed by 'that child,' as you call her!" she answered--"You had better know the truth then at once,--'that child' is my daughter!" "Your daughter?--your--your--" The words died on his lips--he staggered slightly as though under a sudden physical blow, and gripped the mantelpiece behind him with one hand. "Good God!" he half whispered--"What do you mean?--you have had no children--" "Not by you,--no!" she said, with a flash of scorn--"Not in marriage, that church-and-law form of union!--but by love and passion--yes! Stop!--do not look at me like that! I have not been false to you--I have not betrayed you! Your honour has been safe with me! It was before I met you that this thing happened." He stood rigid and very pale. "Before you met me?" "Yes. I was a silly, romantic, headstrong girl,--my parents were compelled to go abroad, and I was left in the charge of one of my mother's society friends--a thoroughly worldly, unprincipled woman whose life was made up of intrigue and gambling. And I ran away with a man--Pierce Armitage--" "Pierce Armitage!" The name broke from him like a cry of agony. "Yes--Pierce Armitage. Did you know him?" He looked at her with eyes in which there was a strange horror. "Know him? He was my best friend!" She shrugged her shoulders, and a slight weary smile parted her lips. "Well, you never told me,--I have never heard you mention his name. But the world is a small place!--and when I was a girl he was beginning to be known by a good many people. Anyhow, he threw up everything in the way of his art and work, and ran away with me. I went quite willingly--I took a maid whom we bribed,--we pretended we were married, and we had a charming time together--a time of real romance, till he began to get tired and want change--all men are like that! Then he became a bore with a bad temper. He certainly behaved very well when he knew the child was coming, and offered to marry me in real earnest--but I refused." "You refused!" Lord Blythe echoed the words in a kind of stupefied wonderment.