Again she hesitated and looked sharply into Adrian’s face. Should she, or should she not, tell him the rest? Yes. She must; it would be the surest, shortest way of curing his infatuation for those wood people. Her boy had spoken of this Margot as a child, yet with profound love and admiration. It would be as well to nip any nonsense of that sort in the bud. There was only a moment left, they were already taking their places at the elegantly appointed table, and she whispered the rest:
“He is in for robbery and manslaughter,—your own father the victim. His name is Philip Romeyn, and your woodland nonpareil is his daughter.”
CHAPTER XXIII
FATHER AND SON
“Mother!”
Adrian’s cry was a gasp. He could not believe that he had heard aright; but he felt himself pulled down into his chair and realized that though his spiritual world had been turned upside down, as it were, this extraordinary dinner must go on. There was only one fact for which to rejoice, a trivial one: he had been placed so that he could look directly into that palm-decked alcove and upon this convict, Number 526.
Convict! Impossible. The fine head was not debased by the close-cropped hair, and held itself erect as one upon which no shadow of guilt or disgrace had ever rested. The face was noble, despite its lines and the prison pallor; and though hard labor had bowed the once stalwart shoulders, they neither slouched nor shrunk together as did those of the other poor men in that group.
“Adrian! Remember where you are.”