Lord Will was a little stupid, and therefore very placable. But this stung him to the quick. He knew what a lie meant, and though he felt a resistance and profound objection in himself to accept that dreadful word as representing his action, still, he felt there was a horrible resemblance between his intentions and that theory. Certainly the legacy would have been a lie. He did not see that though he had come to say this, he had already in the frankness which was far deeper down in his nature than any intention of guilt, committed himself to the actual truth. No consciousness of that fact softened his sensations. What Leo said was true. He had come not only to say but to act a lie. ‘You’re tremendously severe,’ he said. ‘I should knock you down by rights for hinting at such a thing.’ ‘Yes, you might,’ said Leo, ‘and you could if you liked. You are bigger than I am; but I don’t see what difference that would make.’ ‘I don’t either,’ said Lord Will. And then there was a pause; he was not clear enough in his mind to stop there. ‘But if this,’ he said, ‘that Mrs. Swinford tells me is true----’ ‘What did my mother tell you?’ ‘Well! you ought to care more about what she says than about any other woman’s pretences. She says that it’s very uncertain whether they were ever married at all. Look here, don’t you know, it isn’t me, it’s your mother. She says they went off from her house together, eloping, as far as I could make out, in the middle of the night: and that the next time she saw them, she--this lady--was with my uncle in Paris and called Lady William. That’s all. Of course, if it was a marriage she’ll be able to prove everything about it; but if not, it does seem a little hard, doesn’t it, that those fifty thousand pounds of old John’s money should be lost? And you must remember, Swinford, it is your mother who says so; it is not I.’