“No, no, my boy,” said Colonel Winwood, who was standing with hands deep in trouser pockets and his head bent, staring at the carpet.  “No words like that in this house.  Besides, why should we want to go into all this?”

He had the Englishman’s detestation of unpleasant explanations.  Ursula Winwood supported him.

“Yes, why?” she asked.

“But it would be very interesting,” said the Princess slowly, cutting her words.

Paul met her eyes, which she had hardened, and saw beneath them pain and anger and wounded pride and repulsion.  For a second he allowed an agonized appeal to flash through his.  He knew that he was deliberately killing the love in her heart.  He felt the monstrous cruelty of it.  A momentary doubt shook him.  Was he justified?  A short while ago she had entered the room her face alight with love; now her face was as stern and cold as his own. .  Had he the right to use the knife like this?  Then certainty came.  It had to be.  The swifter the better.  She of all human beings must no longer be deceived.  Before her, at supreme cost, he must stand clean.

“It’s not very interesting,” said he.  “And it’s soon told.  I was a ragged boy in a slum in a Lancashire town.  I slept on sacking in a scullery, and very seldom had enough to eat.  The woman whom I didn’t think was my mother ill-treated me.  I gather now that she hated me because she hated my father.  She deserted him when I was a year old and disappeared; she never spoke of him.  I don’t know exactly how old I am.  I chose a birthday at random.  As a child I worked in a factory.  You know what child-labour in factories was some years ago.  I might have been there still, if my dear old friend there hadn’t helped me when I was thirteen to run away.  He used to go through the country in a van selling mats and chairs.  He brought me to London, and found me a lodging with Miss Seddon’s mother.  So, Miss Seddon and I were children together.  I became an artist’s model.  When I grew too old for that to be a dignified ocupation, I went on the stage.  Then one day, starving and delirious, I stumbled through the gates of Drane’s Court and fell at Miss Winwood’s feet.  That’s all.”

“Since we’ve begun, we may as well finish and get it over,” said Colonel Winwood, still with bent head, but looking at Paul from beneath his eyebrows.  “When and how did you come across this gentleman who you say is your father?”

Paul told the story in a few words.

“And now that you have heard everything,” said he, would you think me justified in withdrawing my candidature?”

“Certainly not,” said the Colonel.  “You’ve got your duty to the Party.”

“And you, Miss Winwood?”

“Can you ask?  You have your duty to the country.”

“And you, Princess?”

She met his challenging eyes and rose in a stately fashion.

“I am not equal to these complications of English politics, Mr. Savelli,” she said.  She held herself very erect, but her lips trembled and tears were very near her eyes.  She turned to Miss Winwood and held out her hand.  “I am afraid we must postpone our discussion of the Forlorn Widows.  It is getting late.  Au revoir, Colonel Winwood—­”