"To think of him?" murmured Humphrey.
"Yes. Well, the time has come for you to learn the truth, if you don't know the truth already."
Humphrey smiled. "I really cannot read that riddle. No; I do not know the truth. Whether I shall take it worthily, as you say, or whether I shall receive the wiping of muddy feet, I cannot foretell."
"You don't know? Well, I don't think it's my business to tell you. Very likely some one will tell you. Meantime, the person principally concerned does know it, and you will understand, when you do learn the truth, how much it has unsettled her. Also Dick knows it."
"Who is Dick? Fiddler Dick? Dick the Tramp? Dick who goes out in white-thread gloves, like a waiter?"
"And Molly knows it. And I know it. Very well. Now, I want you to remember very carefully what I say. If you don't understand these words now, you will later on. First of all, whatever happens, you are no relation of mine."
"Thank you! thank you!" Humphrey changed his position, sat up, and clasped his hands. "Thank you, so much! I began to fear, Mr. Haveril, that you must be a long-lost uncle."
"And no claim can be set up on me. You are not my son, but hers."
"That is at least true. I am hers. And I certainly am not yours. This grows exciting."
"Hers, I say, not mine."