Brood stopped her with a gesture of his hand.
“The time has come for frankness on my part. You set me an example, Lydia. You have the courage of your father. For months I have had it in my mind to tell you the truth about Frederic, but my courage has always failed me. Perhaps I use the wrong word. It may be something very unlike cowardice that has held me back. I am going to put a direct question to you first of all, and I ask you to answer truthfully. Would you say that Frederic is like—that is, resembles his father?” He was leaning forward, his manner intense.
Lydia was surprised.
“What an odd thing to say! Of course he resembles his father. I have never seen a portrait of his mother, but———”
“You mean that he looks like me?” demanded Brood.
“Certainly. What do you mean?”
Brood laughed, a short, ugly laugh—and then fingered his chin nervously.
“He resembles his mother,” he said.
“When he is angry he is very much like you, Mr Brood. I have often wondered why he is unlike you at other times. Now I know. He is like his mother. She must have been lovely, gentle, patient———”
“Wait! Suppose I were to tell you that Frederic is not my son?”