"My father," he went on in a low voice, "died when I was a little child. I have no remembrance of him. But my mother once told me that he was well-born—well-connected. And I know—apart from what she said— I know, from what is in me, that he must have been of gentle birth. You understand, do you not? I have all the instincts of gentle blood. That at least I may claim, without hesitation. I have them—not from training only, but by inheritance." Another pause. Doris had not stirred. "Still—I must tell you frankly—I am afraid there may have been about him something not satisfactory. I only conjecture this, for my mother has said nothing of the kind. She is by nature extraordinarily reserved; and she scarcely ever mentions him. He may, possibly, have done something which she does not like to tell. But that my father was a gentleman, I have no doubt." Doris made an indistinct sound. "By the wish of this friend, who undertook my education, I have been very little with my mother and sisters. He has insisted on keeping me as much as possible away from them." She managed to say, "That must make things difficult." "It makes things very difficult. When we do meet, there is a gulf which nothing can bridge over. Our lives, our aims, our whole outlook— are different. I suppose the separation was wrong. But I had no responsibility there. Nothing now can undo the past." "And this friend—does he still wish you to keep away from them?" "The same as ever. And though he has no real control over me, we owe him much. Besides—he makes other things depend upon—this!"—in a lower tone. Another break. "You have sisters," Doris observed. "Two. One of them has inherited—as I hope I have—the instincts of gentle blood. Poor little Winnie! But—Jane—" He stopped short. Doris had started to her feet, crimson and half choked, hardly able to believe her own ears. Winnie!—and Jane! Morris!—and Maurice!—the same name, differently spelt. His father—a gentleman! In a flash she recalled the portrait, found and opened by Mrs. Brutt; the narrow, low-browed bad face, the worse than vulgar look. That—his father! And his mother—the heavy, blunt, silent woman, Mrs. Morris! And his sister—the impossible Jane, in yellow blouse and furious fringe and cheap gorgeous hat! It was like an abyss opening before her! This new sweet world of happiness, in which for days she had lived, underwent eclipse. In a flash she saw it all; and she forgot where she was. She forgot everything, except the dire discovery that Dick Maurice, the man to whom she had lost her heart, was the son of Phil Morris and Nurse Molly, and—the brother of Jane! Her first impulse was to spring to her feet, to put a space between herself and him. She obeyed the impulse unthinkingly, with a hasty backward movement.