"You are mad--you are _mad_! It is abominable to talk to me like this. What do you mean? 'My poor mother'--who is my mother?" She faced him tragically, the certainty which was already dawning in her mind--prepared indeed, through years, by all the perplexities and rebellions of her girlhood--betraying itself in her quivering face, and lips. Suddenly, she dropped upon a fallen log beside the path, hiding her face in her hands, struggling again with the sheer faintness of the shock. And Philip, kneeling in the dry leaves beside her, completed his work, with the cruel mercy of the man who kills what he has wounded. He asked her to look back into her childhood; he reminded her of the many complaints she had made to him of her sense of isolation within her supposed family; of the strange provisions of Sir Ralph's will; of the arrangement which had made her Meynell's ward in a special sense. "Why, of course, that was so natural! You remember I suggested to you once that Richard probably judged Neville from the same Puritanical standpoint that he judged me? Well, I was a fool to talk like that. I remember now perfectly what my mother used to say. They were of different generations, but they were tremendous friends; and there was only a few years between them. I am certain it was by Neville's wish that Richard became your guardian." He laughed, in some embarrassment. "He couldn't exactly foresee that another member of the family would want to cut in. I love you--I adore you! Let's give all these people the slip. Hester, my pretty, pretty darling--look at me! I'll show you what life means--what love means!" And doubly tempted by her abasement, her bewildered pain, he tried again to take her in his arms. But she held him at arm's length. "If," she said, with pale lips--"if Sir Neville was my father--and Aunt Alsie"--her voice failed her--"were they--were they never married?" He slowly and reluctantly shook his head. "Then I'm--I'm--oh! but that's monstrous--that's absurd! I don't believe it!" She sprang to her feet. Then, as she stood confronting his silence, the whole episode of that bygone September afternoon--the miniature--Aunt Alice's silence and tears--rushed back on memory. She trembled, and the iron entered into her soul. "Let's go back to the station," she said, resolutely. "It's time." They walked back through the forest paths, for some time without speaking, she refusing his aid. And all the time swiftly, inexorably, memory and inference were at work, dragging to light the deposit--obscure, or troubling, or contradictory--left in her by the facts and feelings of her childhood and youth.