Patience sprang towards him like an enraged tigress, her eyes flashing fire.
"Not by you," she hissed, with her mouth so close to his face that he could feel her hot breath upon his cheek. "Not by you--I've brought him up all these years by myself without troubling you for money--he thinks his birth is honourable and has every chance of making a career for himself, so you are not going to mar it for your own vile ends."
"Don't lose your temper," he said coolly, "I'll do what I please."
"I have your promise not to claim him," she panted with a look of despair in her eyes, "your sacred promise."
The artist laughed in a gibing manner.
"Bah! That for my promise," he said, snapping his fingers in the air. "I'm not going to lose the chance of making money out of him for any sentimental rubbish."
"You will tell him you are his father?"
"I will."
"And that you deserted us both in London?"
Beaumont winced at the sting of her words.