LADY PEMBURY. Who is your father? What's your name?
STRANGER. Didn't I tell you I hadn't got a name? (Bitterly) And if you want to know why, ask Sir John Pembury, K.B.E.
LADY PEMBURY (in a whisper). He's your father.
STRANGER. Yes. And I'm his loving son—come to see him at last, after all these years.
LADY PEMBURY (hardly able to ask it). How—how old are you?
STRANGER. Thirty.
LADY PEMBURY (sitting down on the sofa). Oh, thank God! Thank God!
STRANGER (upset by her emotion). Look here, I didn't want all this. I ask you—did I begin it? It was you who kept asking questions. I just came for a quiet talk with Sir John—Father and Son talking together quietly—talking about Son's allowance. A thousand a year. What did you want to come into it for?
(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.