"I'm always trying to keep them from doing it. Now, Dick,—what is it that bothers you?"
"Phil Morris has turned up at the farm. Such a scene. Winnie describes it all."
(Phil Morris. The farm! Winnie! Mrs. Brutt became excited. What could Mr. Maurice know about them? Her nostrils quivered, scenting prey. Doris's slight mimicry, Maurice's laughter, had turned her there and then into their bitter enemy. Kind-hearted though she was in the main, inordinate vanity was a leading feature of her character; and she could neither endure nor forgive aught of a personal slight.)
"Phil Morris"—slowly. "Your—" and a pause. "But he was drowned."
"That must have been a false report. He made his appearance without warning. Walked in upon them suddenly."
Doris took one flashing survey of the situation. She recalled the relationship, the portrait she had seen,—and she realised what this must mean.
"Phil Morris! Dick!—your father!"
(Through châlet walls the word had an electrical effect. Mrs. Brutt thrilled with the joy of a seeker after treasure, finding more than he has bargained for. She dismissed for the moment her personal injury, to give undivided attention. Here was a cache indeed, disentombed! Dick Maurice—no longer her beloved young doctor,—actually the son of Nurse Molly, and of that disreputable creature, Phil Morris, hitherto supposed to be dead. Oh yes—she knew—she remembered! She had since hunted out various facts about him, and had learnt to a certainty that he was disreputable. And to think that he should be Mr. Maurice's father! No marvel that, in her brilliant perspicacity, she should at first sight have turned against the young fellow. Within the limits of two seconds, the whole thing became clear; and she crept some inches closer to the wall, that she might not lose a syllable.)
"Then, after all, he didn't die, all those years ago."
"He did not die. It was a mistake. Phil Morris is alive still. But, darling, he is not my father."