"Do you remember your first visit here?" inquired Mrs. Claiborne very sweetly. If she was an enemy, she certainly knew how to conceal her feelings. "Do you remember how wildly you talked—how insulting you were?"
"I declare to you on my honour that I never intended to insult you," Silas exclaimed.
"Why, all your insinuations were insulting. You gave me to understand that my coming here was an outrage—as if you had anything to do with my movements. But you insisted that my coming here was an attack on you and your son. When and where and how did I ever do you a wrong?"
"Why didn't you—didn't—" Silas tried hard to formulate his wrongs, but they were either so many or so few that words failed him.
"Did I desert you when you were ill and delirious? Did I put faith in an anonymous letter and believe you to be dead?" The lady spoke with a calmness that seemed to be unnatural and unreal.
For a little while, Silas made no reply, but sat like one dazed, his eyes fixed on the crayon portrait of himself. "Did you hang that thing up there for Paul to see it and ask questions about it?" he asked, after awhile.
"I hung it there because I chose to," she replied. "Judge Vardeman thinks it is a very good likeness of you, but I don't agree with him. Do you think it does you justice?" she asked.
"And then there's Paul," said Silas, ignoring her question. "Do you propose to let him go ahead and fall in love with the girl?"
"Paul is not my son," the lady calmly answered.
"But the girl is your daughter," Silas insisted.