“Oho!  That’s a sufficiently fine name for your sort of sister.  What sort of sister, my friend?”

For the first time in their relationship he observed and deplored the taint of vulgarity, of shrewishness, in her manner.

“It would have been more accurate in me to have said a sort of reputed left-handed cousin.”

“A reputed left-handed cousin!  And what sort of relationship may that be?  Faith, you dazzle me with your lucidity.”

“It requires to be explained.”

“That is what I have been telling you.  But you seem very reluctant with your explanations.”

“Oh, no.  It is only that they are so unimportant.  But be you the judge.  Her uncle, M. de Kercadiou, is my godfather, and she and I have been playmates from infancy as a consequence.  It is popularly believed in Gavrillac that M. de Kercadiou is my father.  He has certainly cared for my rearing from my tenderest years, and it is entirely owing to him that I was educated at Louis le Grand.  I owe to him everything that I have — or, rather, everything that I had; for of my own free will I have cut myself adrift, and to-day I possess nothing save what I can earn for myself in the theatre or elsewhere.”

She sat stunned and pale under that cruel blow to her swelling pride.  Had he told her this but yesterday, it would have made no impression upon her, it would have mattered not at all; the event of to-day coming as a sequel would but have enhanced him in her eyes.  But coming now, after her imagination had woven for him so magnificent a background, after the rashly assumed discovery of his splendid identity had made her the envied of all the company, after having been in her own eyes and theirs enshrined by marriage with him as a great lady, this disclosure crushed and humiliated her.  Her prince in disguise was merely the outcast bastard of a country gentleman!  She would be the laughing-stock of every member of her father’s troupe, of all those who had so lately envied her this romantic good fortune.

“You should have told me this before,” she said, in a dull voice that she strove to render steady.

“Perhaps I should.  But does it really matter?”

“Matter?” She suppressed her fury to ask another question.  “You say that this M. de Kercadiou is popularly believed to be your father.  What precisely do you mean?”

“Just that.  It is a belief that I do not share.  It is a matter of instinct, perhaps, with me.  Moreover, once I asked M. de Kercadiou point-blank, and I received from him a denial.  It is not, perhaps, a denial to which one would attach too much importance in all the circumstances.  Yet I have never known M de Kercadiou for other than a man of strictest honour, and I should hesitate to disbelieve him — particularly when his statement leaps with my own instincts.  He assured me that he did not know who my father was.”

“And your mother, was she equally ignorant?” She was sneering, but he did not remark it.  Her back was to the light.