in
the stress of explication, she went on more rapidly.

"Lord Saxby has died in the Transvaal of enteric fever, and I think you
both ought to know that Lord Saxby was your father."

When his mother said this, the blood rushed to Michael's face and then
immediately receded, so that his eyelids as they closed over his eyes to
shield them from the room's suddenly intense light glowed greenly; and
when he looked again anywhere save directly at his mother, his heart
seemed to have been crushed between ice. The room itself went swinging
up in loops out of reach of his intelligence, that vainly strove to
bring it back to familiar conditions. The nightmare passed: the
drawing-room regained its shape and orderly tranquillity: the story went
on.

"I have often wished to tell you, Michael, in particular," said his
mother, looking at him with great grey eyes whose lustrous intensity
cooled his first pained sensation of shamefulness, "Years ago, when you
were the dearest little boy, and when I was young and rather lonely
sometimes, I longed to tell you. But it would not have been fair to
weigh you down with knowledge that you certainly could not have grasped
then. I thought it was kinder to escape from your questions, even when
you said that your father looked like a prince."

"Did I?" Michael asked, and he fell to wondering why he had spoken and
why his voice sounded so exactly the same as usual.

"You see ... of course ... I was never married to your father. You must
not blame him, because he wanted to marry me always, but Lady Saxby
wouldn't divorce him. I dare say she had a right to nurse her injury.
She is still alive. She lives in an old Scottish castle. Your father
gave up nearly all his time to me. That was why you were both alone so
much. You must forgive me for that, if you can. But I knew, as time went
on that we should never be married, and ... Your father only saw you
once, dearest Stella, when you were very tiny. You remember, Michael,
when you saw him. He loved you so much, for of course, except in name,
you were his heir. He wanted to have you to live with him. He loved
you."

"I suppose that's why I liked him so tremendously," said Michael.

"Did you, dearest boy?" said Mrs. Fane, and the tears were in her grey
eyes. "Ah, how dear it is of you to say that."

"Mother, I can't tell you how sorry I am I never went to say good-bye. I
shall never forgive myself," said Michael. "I shall never forgive
myself."