(LADY PEMBURY is quiet again now.  She wipes away a tear or two, and sits up, looking at him thoughtfully.)

LADY PEMBURY.  So you are the son that I never had.

STRANGER.  What d’you mean?

LADY PEMBURY (almost to herself).  The son whom I wanted so.  Five girls—­never a boy.  Let me look at you. (She goes up to him.)

STRANGER (edging away).  Here, none of that.

LADY PEMBURY (looking at him earnestly to see if she can see a likeness).  No—­and yet—­(shaking her head sadly) Poor boy!  What an unhappy life you must have had!

STRANGER.  I didn’t come here to be pitied.  I came to get my rightful allowance—­same as any other son.

LADY PEMBURY (to herself).  Poor boy! (She goes back to her seat and then says) You don’t mind my asking you questions now, do you?

STRANGER.  Go on.  There’s no mistake about it.  I can promise you that.

LADY PEMBURY.  How did you find out?  Did your Mother tell you?

STRANGER.  Never a word.  “Don’t ask questions, sonny——­” “Father’s dead”—­all that sort of thing.

LADY PEMBURY.  Does Sir John know?  Did he ever know?

STRANGER (feeling in his pocket). He knew right enough. (Bringing out letters) Look here—­here you are.  This was how I found out.  (Selecting one) There—­read that one.

LADY PEMBURY (taking it).  Yes—­that’s John’s writing. (She holds it out to him.)

STRANGER.  Aren’t you going to read it?

LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head pathetically).  He didn’t write it to me.

STRANGER.  He didn’t write it to me, if it comes to that.

LADY PEMBURY.  You’re her son—­you have a right.  I’m—­nobody.

STRANGER (putting it back in his pocket).  Oh well, please yourself.

LADY PEMBURY.  Did Sir John provide for your mother?

STRANGER.  Well, why shouldn’t he?  He was a rich man.

LADY PEMBURY.  Not in those days. . . .  But indeed—­why shouldn’t he?  What else could he do?  I’m glad he did.

STRANGER.  And now he’s going to provide for his loving son.  He’s rich enough for that in these days.

LADY PEMBURY.  He’s never seen you?

STRANGER.  Never.  The historic meeting of Father and Son will take place this afternoon. (With a feeble attempt at what he thinks is the aristocratic manner) Afraid the Governor will be in the deuce of a rage.  Been exceedin’ my allowance—­what?  Make it a thousand, dear old Gov.

LADY PEMBURY.  Don’t they call that blackmail?

STRANGER (violently).  Now look here, I’d better tell you straight that there’s no blackmail about this at all.  He’s my father, isn’t he?  Well, can’t a son come to his father if he’s hard up?  Where are your threatening letters?  Where’s the blackmail?  Anyway, what’s he going to do about it?  Put his son in prison?

LADY PEMBURY (following her own thoughts).  You’re thirty.  Thank God for that.  We hadn’t met then. . . .  Ah, but he ought to have told me.  He ought to have told me.