"Not—your child?"
"No."
"Whose?"
"I cannot tell."
After a silence the marquis stood up, and walked to the window. His face was haggard, his hair dishevelled.
"No," he said, "Lorraine is not my daughter. She is not even my heiress. She was—she was—found, eighteen years ago."
The room was becoming lighter; the sky grew faintly luminous and the mist from the stagnant fen curled up along the turret like smoke.
Jack picked up his cap and riding-crop and rose; the marquis turned from the window to confront him. His face was no longer furrowed with pain, the cold light had crept back into his eyes.
"Monsieur," said Jack, "I ask your permission to address Lorraine. I love her."
The marquis stood silent, scarcely breathing.