But the mother ran forward and caught at her son's arm. "Oh, but I will make it known! I will say who you are! I'll say you are mine! I will—I will—"
"You can't, for I'm not," he said.
She was clinging to him, but he looked over her head, eye to eye with his father. "How can I be her son, when she let people here in Old Chester believe that Aunt Lydia—"
"Johnny," said Doctor Lavendar, "it didn't make the slightest difference to Miss Lydia."
The young man turned upon him. "Doctor Lavendar, these two people didn't own me, even when a pack of fools believed—" He choked over what the fools believed. "They let them think that of Aunt Lydia! As for this—this lady being my 'mother'— What's 'mother' but a word? Aunt Lydia may not be my mother, but I am her son. Yes—yes—I am."
"You are," Doctor Lavendar agreed.
John turned and looked at his father. "I'm sorry for him," he said to Doctor Lavendar.
"We will acknowledge you to-morrow," Carl Robertson said.
"I won't acknowledge you," his son flung back at him. "All these years you have hidden behind Aunty. Stay hidden. I won't betray you."
Mary had dropped down into her father's chair; her face was covered by her hands on the desk. They heard her sob. Her husband bent over her and put his arms about her.