"Yes, Victor."
"I want to see a photograph of my father."
Her face grew very cold and stern. Without a word she got up and walked slowly into the house; I followed. In her boudoir she handed me a miniature--I did not look to see where she took it from--and so, for the first time that I had remembrance of, I saw my father's face. I don't know what I thought of the face, but the eyes were kind eyes. I stared long and fixedly at the miniature; various feelings surged through me, far too subtle to describe.
At last I handed it back.
"Thank you, mother," I said.
"Is that all you wished, are you satisfied now?"
"No, I can't say that I am satisfied, because there are so many things I wish to know; is there any reason why I should not be told about him?"
"There is, Victor."
"But it is nothing wrong, is it?"
"Wrong? My God! yes! it is wrong, but it does not take from your father's name. Listen to me, Victor; you are growing into a man, when the time comes, you shall be told many things, until then wait patiently, my boy, I promise that you shall know everything."