"Perhaps it is," she said, kissing the little face which was blinking and smiling at her. "But to whom?"
"To whom!" Sydney cried, with more of real indignation and anger in his voice. "To its miserable mother—to its unscrupulous and villainous father!"
Lettice's keen ears caught the sound of light and hesitating footsteps in the passage outside. She opened the door quickly, and drew in the unfortunate Milly.
Sydney started back, and leaned for support upon the mantelpiece behind him. His face turned white to the very lips.
"Milly," said the remorseless Lettice, "tell Mr. Campion who is the father of this child!"
The poor mother who had been looking at her mistress in mute appeal, turned her timid eyes on Sydney's face, then sank upon the floor in an agony of unrestrained weeping.
Except for that sound of passionate weeping, there was complete silence in the room for two or three minutes, whilst Sydney's better and worse self strove together for the mastery.
"Milly!" he ejaculated at last, in a hoarse undertone, "I did not know! Good God, I did not know."
Then, to his sister—"Leave us alone."
So Lettice went out, but before she went she saw him stride across the floor to Milly and bend above her as if to raise and perhaps to comfort her. He did not ask to see his sister again. In a short ten minutes, she saw him walking hastily across the Common to the station, and she noticed that his head was bent, and that the spring, the confidence of his usual gait and manner had deserted him. Milly locked herself with her baby in her room, and sobbed until she was quieted by sheer exhaustion.