"See how your--no, God help me!" he cried wildly, "I dare not utter his name. See how you have disgraced your married sister--lowered me in the eyes of society. I am almost ruined, and just at a time when I had succeeded in placing your brother well. And now, see here--see here!" He tore a note from his breast, and held it out rustling in his trembling hand. "Here--I will not punish you more by reading it aloud," he said; "but it is from my own son." "From Fred?" "Silence, woman!" cried Denville, with a wild look of agony in his eyes, and a ghastly pallor taking the place of the two feverish spots that had stood in his cheeks. "I have no such son. He is an outcast. I forbid you to mention his name again." He stood quivering with a curious passion, his lips moving, his eyes staring wildly, and he beat one hand with the open letter he held in the other. "Here!" he exclaimed at last, "from Morton--to say that, under the circumstances, he feels bound--for the sake of his own dignity and position in his regiment, to hold aloof from his home. The regiment will soon change quarters, and in time all this, he hopes, will be forgotten. Till then, all is to be at an end between us. This--from my own son." He began to pace the room nervously, thrusting back the letter; and then he turned upon Claire again. "Not content, you still go on. Clandestine correspondence. Let me see who wrote that." "I cannot, father." "But I insist. Here, just when I had had your hand asked in marriage by one who is wealthy and noble, you disgrace us all by that shameless meeting. Give me the letter, I say." In his rage he caught her by the arms, and she struggled with him and fell upon her knees at his feet. "Am I to use force?" he cried. "For your own sake, no. Father, the letter is not what you think. For your own peace of mind, let it stay." His hands dropped to his sides at his daughter's wild appeal, and the convulsed angry look once more gave place to the one of dread, as he drew back a step. "Tell me," he cried, still hesitating, "is it from that libertine, Sir Harry Payne?" "No, no!" "From Rockley?" "No, father. How can you think me so degraded--so low!" "Then--then--" "Father, for pity's sake!" she cried, as she crept to his knees and embraced them. "Can you not see how I am willing to bear everything to save you pain? Has there not been agony and suffering enough in this house? You cannot think--you cannot believe. Is it not better that we should let this rest?" He raised his trembling hands to his lips in a nervous, excited way, looking searchingly and furtively by turns in his child's piteous face. The rage in his own had died out, to give place to the look of terror; and, as Claire clung to him, he now and again glanced at the door, as if he would flee from her presence.