"Of course I am," snapped the elder woman, drying her tears. "How often do you wish me to repeat it? I am not in the habit of calling other people's children my children. Can't you say something more affectionate, you cold-hearted girl?"
"It is all so strange--so new," gasped Beatrice. "Tell me how it came about that I never knew this until now."
"It's Durban's fault," said Lady Watson sullenly. "Durban always hated me, though I'm sure I was always kind to him--the beast!"
"Durban is a good man," said Beatrice quickly.
"Oh! dear me, that is exactly the exasperating sort of thing your father would have said. He was a good man also--the kind of man I most particularly hate. Never mind, I'll make everything plain to you. I've held my tongue long enough. Now I am going to speak out, and take back to my hungry heart the baby girl I loved."
"Did you really love me?" asked Beatrice doubtfully.
"Yes--really I did. You were all that I had to love, as my husband--the first one, your father--was a kind of stone image with no feelings and no affections. I loved you fondly, and wanted to be your dearest mother--which I certainly am--but that Durban and that horrid Alpenny were too strong for me. No, it wasn't Alpenny. I don't think he wanted to bring you up; but Durban insisted, and I gave way."
"Why did you?"
"There were reasons," said Lady Watson evasively, and a spot of red burned on either cheek.
"They must have been strong reasons to make a mother surrender her child to the care of strangers."