Her eyes filled with horror.
“How can you say such a thing, Mr Brood? He is your son. How can you say———”
“His father is the man who wrote the accursed waltz he has just been playing! Could there be anything more devilish than the conviction it carries? After all these years, he———”
“Stop, Mr Brood!”
“I am sorry if I hurt you, Lydia. You have asked me why I hate him. Need I say anything more?”
“You have only made me love him more than ever before. You cannot hurt me through Frederic.”
“I am sorry that it has come to such a pass as this. It is not right that you should be made to suffer, too.”
“I do not believe all that you have told me. He is your son. He is, Mr Brood.”
“I would to God I could believe that!” he cried in a voice of agony. “I would to God it were true!”
“You could believe it if you chose to believe your own eyes, your own heart.” She lowered her voice to a half whisper. “Does—does Frederic know? Does he know that his mother—oh, I can't believe it!”