Stephen walked up to the speaker.
"Take care, father! This is a question of a girl—an unprotected girl!
What right have you to say such an abominable thing!"
He stood panting and white, in front of his father.
"The right of truth!" said Barron. "It happens to be true."
"Your grounds?"
"The confession of the woman who nursed her mother—who was not Lady
Fox-Wilton."
Barron had now assumed the habitual attitude—thumbs in his pockets, legs slightly apart—that Stephen had associated from his childhood with the long bullying, secular and religious, that Barron's family owed to Barron's temperament.
In the pause, Stephen's quick breathing could be heard.
"Who was she?"
The son's tone had caught the father's sharpness.