“Pardon me if I ask, but is she what your tedious grandmother called a gentlewoman?”
“She’s a barmaid in Fleet Street,” he answered defiantly.
Without hesitation came the next question, in a ringing voice.
“And when do you expect the accouchement?”
A blow could not have taken him more aback. The blood rushed to his cheeks, and he sprang to his feet. Her eyes rested on him with cool scorn, and confounded by her penetration, he found nothing to say.
“I’m right, am I? Virtue has had a fall, apparently. Ah, mon cher, I’ve not forgotten the charming things you said to me five years ago. Have you? Don’t you remember the eloquence with which you spoke of chastity and honour? And you called me a name—which well-conducted sons don’t usually apply to their mothers; but I take it your wife will have no fewer claims to it than I?”
“If I have lust in my blood, it’s because I have the misfortune to be your son,” he cried fiercely.
I can’t help admiring you when I remember the unctuous rectitude with which you acted the upright man, you were playing your little game all the time. But, franchement, your little game rather disgusts me. I don’t like these hole-and-corner tricks with barmaids.”
“I dare say I did wrong, but I mean to make amends.”
“Of all fools, the saints preserve me from the fool who repents. If you can’t sin like a gentleman, you’d really better be virtuous. A gentleman doesn’t marry a barmaid because he’s seduced her—unless he has the soul of a counter-jumper. And then you dared come to me with your impudent sermons!”