“But, Sophie dear, your mother does wrong in making you a bastard when you are the legitimate daughter of the dancer Pompeati, who killed himself at Vienna.”
“Then I am not your daughter?”
“Clearly, for you cannot have two fathers, can you?”
“But how is it that I am your image?”
“It’s a mere chance.”
“You deprive me of a dream which has made me happy.”
Pauline said nothing, but covered her with kisses, which Sophie returned effusively. She asked me if the lady was my wife, and on my replying in the affirmative she called Pauline her “dear mamma,” which made “dear mamma” laugh merrily.
When the dessert was served I drew four fifty-pound notes out of my pocket-book, and giving them to Sophie told her that she might hand them over to her mother if she liked, but that the present was for her and not for her mother.
“If you give her the money,” I said, “she will be able to sleep to-night in the fine house where she gave me such a poor reception.”
“It makes me unhappy to think of it, but you must forgive her.”