Norman de Vere grew ghastly; a stifled imprecation escaped his lips.
“Mrs. Bentley thought,” continued his mother, “that perhaps you had some clew to Thea’s parentage which you could follow up so as to remove the stain upon her and satisfy the world. Unless this could be done, she and her husband would withhold their consent to Cameron speaking to Thea as he had planned to do at our ball.”
“Are they so sure of her consent?” he asked, scornfully.
“I suppose so. It would be a great match for Thea, you know, and if she has a spark of ambition she could not but accept him. Even outside of his gifts of good birth and wealth, the young man is personally very attractive. It would seem quite natural for Thea to love him.”
“Yes,” her son said, in a strange voice. He paused a minute, then added: “Does Sweetheart, poor child, know this miserable thing?”
“No.”
“Of course you told Mrs. Bentley that I knew nothing, absolutely nothing, of Sweetheart’s past—not even her name?”
“Yes.”
“And her answer?”
“She said it was most unfortunate, because the scandal was being circulated to so great an extent that it was beyond doubt the work of a most malicious enemy—one who hated you or Thea, or both. They were some women, she said, who had decided to drop Thea’s acquaintance—among them the young beauty from New York now visiting Orange Grove. She sent this morning a regret for the ball.”