"I don't forget."
The Rector poured out a glass of water from a jug which stood on the table, drank it off, and began to speak.
"Your mother, Bertram, was twice married. Her first husband—my poor boy, I am sorry for you—was a scoundrel, a thief, a blackleg. He died in prison. You are his son. Your father died in a Bombay prison; you were in England at the time."
"Stop, sir," said Bertram. "What was my—my—what was the name of the man to whom I owe my being?"
"Your mother has not told me. She says she will never reveal his name. She says that your stepfather gave you legally the name of Bertram. That, at least, need never be disturbed."
"Then Catherine and Mabel are not my sisters."
"They are your half-sisters; that is a small matter."
"True. Everything in the world is a small matter in comparison with the awful fact that I am the son of a felon."
"I am deeply pained for you, Bertram. Your mother knew how this would strike home. Hence her sin."
"I forgot. I have to hear of that. Go on, Mr. Ingram."