"Where am I, Father Lefroy? you're not on the square; you said I was going to see my mother; come, own up; what did you say I was coming where every one wore masks for?" and he stamped on the one he had torn off (and which they thought it best he should wear, so that at a certain point, if necessary, his strong resemblance to his father should be suddenly revealed).
"So they do wear masks, my son, though you do not see them."
"I am not your son; this is my father," he said with emphasis and pride, drawing from his pocket a miniature of Delrose; "we're square now; you hid this from me, but I found it out; you cannot put me on bread and water, for I've good as cut and run."
"George, dear, be a good boy; I am your mother," said the poor nun, tearfully.
"You! well, it is your voice; but why didn't you speak to a fellow in the coach, and lift up that nasty black veil; here, I will."
And before she could stop him, he had mounted the chair and torn the whole head-gear off, exposing the face of one-time Mrs. Clarmont.
"'Tis she! 'tis she!" echoed many voices;—girls, now matrons, remembered the pretty little thing in their first season as Mrs. Clarmont; chaperons and men, who had and hadn't flirted with her, remembered her as Fanny Ponton.
"Let me go to her," said Vaura, gently; "what is my grief to hers?"
"Ah, poor thing, what a sad fate has yours been; do not hide your face again from your poor little boy and us; dear me, what a weight it is; one would almost smother beneath its folds."
"Oh, I must veil," cried the poor thing.