"I have no desire to be offensive," said Barron, checking himself with difficulty, "and I have only your good in view, though you may not believe it. My reason for approving Meynell in the matter is that he was aware--and you were not aware"--he fell into the slow phrasing he always affected on important occasions--"of facts bearing vitally on your proposal; and that in the light of them he acted as any honest man was bound to act." "What do you mean!" cried Stephen, springing to his feet. "I mean"--the answer was increasingly deliberate--"that Hester Fox-Wilton--it is very painful to have to go into these things, but it is necessary, I regret to say--is not a Fox-Wilton at all--and has no right whatever to her name!" Stephen walked up to the speaker. "Take care, father! This is a question of a _girl_--an unprotected girl! What right have you to say such an abominable thing!" He stood panting and white, in front of his father. "The right of truth!" said Barron. "It happens to be true." "Your grounds?" "The confession of the woman who nursed her mother--who was _not_ Lady Fox-Wilton." Barron had now assumed the habitual attitude--thumbs in his pockets, legs slightly apart--that Stephen had associated from his childhood with the long bullying, secular and religious, that Barron's family owed to Barron's temperament. In the pause, Stephen's quick breathing could be heard. "Who was she?" The son's tone had caught the father's sharpness. "Well, my dear Stephen, I am not sure that I shall tell you while you look at me in that fashion! Believe me--it is not my fault, but my misfortune, that I happen to be acquainted with this very disagreeable secret. And I have one thing to say--you must give me your promise that you will regard any communication from me as entirely confidential, before I say another word." Stephen walked away to the window and came back. "Very well. I promise." "Sit down. It is a long story."