"Because I did not want to sink deeper than I had done. I was brought up by pious parents, Basil Beaumont, and the sin I committed with you seemed to cut me off for ever from all hope of mercy. I resolved to sin no more--to expiate, if I could, by prayer and charity the evil life I had led in London. When I came down here, my parents were dead, and I was alone in the world." "You had the child." "Yes, I had the child--your child and mine--but no one ever knew I was his mother; no, I did not wish our sin to be visited on his head. I did not want him to be pointed at as a nameless outcast." "Very creditable of you, I'm sure," said Beaumont, with a sneer, "and what did you do?" "I invented a story that I had been in the service of the child's parents, who had afterwards gone to France and died there. I said I was the child's nurse, and placed him in the care of Doctor Larcher to be brought up. What little money I could spare out of my salary as housekeeper was given to the vicar as money left to the child by his father, and to this day the vicar does not suspect the truth." "Quite a romance," said Beaumont, lightly. "I had no idea you had such inventive powers. But there is one thing I would like to know--the child's name." "In order to claim him?" she asked, bitterly. "My faith! no; I've got enough to do in looking after myself, without troubling about a hulking boy. You need never be afraid of that, Patience. Come, tell me the boy's name." "Reginald Blake." The cigarette dropped out of Beaumont's nerveless fingers, and his white face grew a shade whiter. "Reginald Blake," he whispered under his breath; "the young fellow who sings?" "The same." Beaumont remained silent for a few moments, thinking deeply. "I have certainly no reason to be ashamed of my son," he said, coolly, looking at Patience. "You deserve credit for the way you have brought him up." "I have done so as some expiation for my sin." "Bah! Don't be melodramatic!" he said, coarsely. "You brought him up because he was your son--not because of any expiation rubbish!--he doesn't know who he is?" "No. I have spared him that knowledge of shame; let us bear our sin alone." "Humbug! our sin, as you call it, doesn't trouble me in the slightest. In fact, I'm rather pleased than otherwise." "What do you mean?" she asked in alarm. "Mean--that he's got an uncommonly fine tenor voice, and I don't see why money shouldn't be made out of it." Patience sprang towards him like an enraged tigress, her eyes flashing fire. "Not by you," she hissed, with her mouth so close to his face that he could feel her hot breath upon his cheek. "Not by you--I've brought him up all these years by myself without troubling you for money--he thinks his birth is honourable and has every chance of making a career for himself, so you are not going to mar it for your own vile ends." "Don't lose your temper," he said coolly, "I'll do what I please."