Douglas. The one that is most to you is your child. [Fletcher starts; is surprised.] You can't deny the child—
Fletcher. I "can!" I can deny anything.
Douglas. The lie could be proved to your face. In May, 1893, at Lenox, a young kindergarten teacher,—you blackguard, you!
Fletcher. [A little angry.] Who told you that story?
Douglas. [Sneers.] I'm not the only man who knows it! That sort of thing never lies buried!
Fletcher. The girl's all right now!
Douglas. Oh, I know, you sent her abroad, and pay for the child. Well, that's the mother's lookout, and not mine. But I don't believe she's the only case. One has only to look at your life now.—It was fortunate for you this winter that Mrs. Clipton's divorce trial didn't come off.
Fletcher. [A little more angry. Back to Douglas.] Still, what has all this to do with you, and I'll deny it all besides, if I feel like it, or need to.
Douglas. You know you're not fit to marry Marion Wolton!
Fletcher. I know I love her.