“I did not expect sympathy from you, but—to have you laugh in my face! I———”
“Did you expect sympathy from him?” she cried.
“I told him in the end that as he was not my son he need feel no compunction in trying to steal my wife away from me. I———”
“And what did he say to that?” she broke in shrilly.
“Nothing! He did not speak to me after that. Not one word!”
“Nor should I speak to you again, James Brood!”
“Yvonne—I—I love you. I———”
“And you loved Matilde—God pity your poor soul! For no more than I have done, you drove her out of your house. You accuse me in your heart when you vent your rage on that poor boy. Oh, I know! You suspect me! And you suspected the other one. I swear to you that you have more cause to suspect me than Matilde. She was not untrue to you. She could not have loved anyone else but you. I know—I know! Don't come near me! Not now! I tell you that Frederic is your son. I tell you that Matilde loved no one but you. You drove her out. You drive Frederic out. And you will drive me out!”
She stood over him like an accusing angel, her arms extended. He shrank back, glaring.
“Why do you say these things to me? You cannot know—you have no right to say———”