"Reginald Blake," he whispered under his breath; "the young fellow who sings?"
"The same."
Beaumont remained silent for a few moments, thinking deeply.
"I have certainly no reason to be ashamed of my son," he said, coolly, looking at Patience. "You deserve credit for the way you have brought him up."
"I have done so as some expiation for my sin."
"Bah! Don't be melodramatic!" he said, coarsely. "You brought him up because he was your son--not because of any expiation rubbish!--he doesn't know who he is?"
"No. I have spared him that knowledge of shame; let us bear our sin alone."
"Humbug! our sin, as you call it, doesn't trouble me in the slightest. In fact, I'm rather pleased than otherwise."
"What do you mean?" she asked in alarm.
"Mean--that he's got an uncommonly fine tenor voice, and I don't see why money shouldn't be made out of it."