"And what if I did?" she flashed out fiercely, with a deep frown on her face. "Could I give him yours--the father who had deserted him? Could I give him mine--the mother to whom his birth was a disgrace?" "A disgrace! I thought you loved him?" "So I do--I love him more than my life; but his birth was a disgrace, and I wish to keep the knowledge from him, please God." "Was the boy you call Reginald Blake ever christened?" "No." "Why not?" "Because I could not tell the truth about his birth, and I refused to tell a lie. He was neither christened, nor was his birth registered." "Then he has no right to the name he bears." "I know that. Whose fault is it, Basil Beaumont--yours or mine? Why didn't you make an honest woman of me?" "Because I did not choose to," he replied, coolly; "by the way, has our son been confirmed?" "No." "Oh," he said, sneering, "I'm sorry he's not got some religious flavour about him. I wonder, Patience, when you called him Blake, you did not pass him off as Fanny's son." She arose from her seat in a fury. "Do you think I was going to place my sin on Fanny's shoulders?" "I don't see why not--Fanny and yourself both came up to London at the same time--the child was born six months after you arrived there--why not call it Fanny's child?" "There was no reason." "Not then; but there is now, and a very excellent reason--ten thousand a year." "What do you mean?" "Simply this, that Reginald Blake, from this time forward, is the son of Fanny Blake and Randal Garsworth." Patience looked at him in surprise, and involuntarily drew back a step, thinking him mad. Beaumont saw this, and laughed mockingly. "Don't be afraid--there's method in my madness." "There's some villainy in it," she said, with a hard smile, sitting down near him; "tell me what you mean, Basil Beaumont, if you intend touching a hair of my son's head I'll punish you." "I intend to give him ten thousand a year, if you won't be a fool." She smiled coldly, and folded her hands upon her lap. "I'm no fool, but I know you--go on, Ananias." Beaumont flung the burnt-out cigarette into the fire with an irritable gesture, and turned his face towards the frigid woman seated before him. "Listen to what I've got to say," he said slowly, "and then you can do as you please--if you assist me it means money and happiness for our son; if you don't, I'll tell him everything, and then leave the village for ever." Patience shivered slightly under the steely glitter of his eyes, and then resumed her cold impassive manner. "Brag's a good dog," she said mockingly, "but he does not bite--go on, I'm all attention." The artist glanced at the door to make sure that it was closed, then drawing his chair closer to that of Patience Allerby, began to talk rapidly, in a low tone of voice.