She could have better endured to hear that the legatee was a plain young woman, in a vastly inferior station. It was as if her son had held a draft of gall and wormwood to her lips, and asked her to swallow it. “It is incredible!” she said, after a brief pause, during which she kept her eyes fixed upon her son’s face. “You have certainly surprised me,” she added, slightly shrugging her shoulders. “Though why I should feel surprise, I cannot tell. It is absurd, I have no doubt. So Miss Turquand has become a young woman of property. I long ago was determined not to be astonished at anything, and I take a fresh resolution from to-night. Was the person who left her this money a relative?” “No.” “Not a relative! May I ask what----Am I indiscreet in asking for any particulars?” Paul Desfrayne knew that sooner or later his mother must become acquainted with everything that the will contained. It was better to take things with a good grace, and let her hear now, than to shrink and keep silence, or grant half-confidences, and make bad worse, by appearing to make a mystery of what was apparently a simple matter. “The old gentleman of whom I was speaking to you last night--Mr. Vere Gardiner--has left Miss Turquand one hundred and thirty thousand pounds unconditionally. He has left me ten thousand in the same way, but----” With an effort he rapidly told her the general contents of the will. “You marry Miss Turquand!” almost angrily cried Mrs. Desfrayne, flirting her fan backward and forward with a nervous movement. She had seated herself, in her agitation, while Paul remained standing a few steps from her. “Such are the terms of the will. If she dies before the three years have expired, I am to receive--I forget how many thousands.” “Have you seen her?” “I have.” “How do you like her?” “Not at all, as far as I can judge.” A smile, almost of gratification, rippled over the fair, smooth face of his mother at this admission. She was on the point of exclaiming: “I am glad of it!” but checked herself, and remarked instead: “How is it that I find you here alone?” These words recalled Captain Desfrayne to his exact position. He felt as if he could have given worlds to speak with the old freedom to the woman who loved him so fondly--could he but explain to her what weighed upon his life like a constant nightmare. But it was impossible. He was a coward, and dared not face her inevitable anger. “I was going away just as I saw you,” he replied, with apparent tranquillity, though his heart for a moment had beat wildly at the thought of making his confession. “The rooms were frightfully hot up-stairs, and this place seemed so cool and inviting, I lingered.” “You will take me up-stairs, however. Does Lady Quaintree know you are my son?” Captain Desfrayne had not thought of it. “I have such an intolerable headache!” he pleaded, anxious to escape; and his temples throbbed to agony. “I really cannot stay.”