"Don't distress yourself, my good soul," said the artist, in a coolly aggravating manner. "I'll tell you that later on; meantime, we will talk of Chelsea."
"No."
"Pardon me--yes. Do you remember how we lived there, you and I, and the visions we used to indulge in? I haven't forgotten it, I assure you, and then Fanny Blake--poor Fanny! she is dead now. I see you gave the boy her surname."
"And what if I did?" she flashed out fiercely, with a deep frown on her face. "Could I give him yours--the father who had deserted him? Could I give him mine--the mother to whom his birth was a disgrace?"
"A disgrace! I thought you loved him?"
"So I do--I love him more than my life; but his birth was a disgrace, and I wish to keep the knowledge from him, please God."
"Was the boy you call Reginald Blake ever christened?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I could not tell the truth about his birth, and I refused to tell a lie. He was neither christened, nor was his birth registered."