"I'll tell him what I think fit," he said angrily, "and make him do what I please. I am his father."
"Will you, indeed?" she observed jeeringly, though her face worked in convulsive rage. "You are the father who deserted him when a child and now want to make money out him; you would disgrace him in his own eyes by telling him the real story of his birth. I tell you no, Basil Beaumont, you'll do no such thing."
"Who will stop me?"
"I will."
"A very laudable intention, but how do you propose to carry it out?"
"I will tell him the whole story of my sin," she said deliberately. "How I loved you and was betrayed, how you left both him and me to starve in the streets of London and only claim him as a son to make money out of his one gift. I'll tell him all this, and then we'll see if he respects and obeys you."
"He is my son."
"Over whom you have no authority; he is of age and you cannot make him your slave. As to the rest, I'll take care that everyone in the village knows the story and you'll be drummed out of the place as the scoundrel you are."
Clever as he was, Beaumont saw Patience held the trump card, so suddenly forsook his dictatorial manner and spoke blandly.
"Very well, I'll say nothing to him at all just now."