He stared at me hard, as though he had uttered the final, indisputable word.
"He forfeited all right to that title years ago."
"When?" demanded Mr. Darton.
"On the day of her birth," I snapped back at him.
"I do not understand you," he said coldly. And, when I remained silent, he added: "There is no greater crime than that of a child towards a father."
"Unless it be, perhaps, that of a father towards a child."
His sadness seemed to weigh him against the desk. I relented.
"To go against one's own—against one's own," he repeated, "and Con so sick now—"
"You must forgive me, Mr. Darton, for my views," I said more gently, "and tell me what I can do."
He pulled himself together at that.