“I said that Mr. Brent, my late husband, was not your father.”
“I don't believe you!” burst forth Philip impetuously.
“You don't wish to believe me, you mean,” answered his step-mother, unmoved.
“No, I don't wish to believe you,” said the boy, looking her in the eye.
“You are very polite to doubt a lady's word,” said Mrs. Brent with sarcasm.
“In such a matter as that I believe no one's word,” said Phil. “I ask for proof.”
“Well, I am prepared to satisfy you. Sit down and I will tell you the story.”
Philip sat down on the nearest chair and regarded his step-mother fixedly.
“Whose son am I,” he demanded, “if not Mr. Brent's?”
“You are getting on too fast. Jonas,” continued his mother, suddenly turning to her hulking son, on whose not very intelligent countenance there was an expression of greedy curiosity, “do you understand that what I am going to say is to be a secret, not to be spoken of to any one?”