Humphrey jumped in his chair. "How the devil, man, can I be your son? What drivel is this?"
John Haveril paid no attention to this question. He was putting his own case in his own words.
"And not being my son, there's no claim," he went on slowly. "But, young man, as the thing has to come out, you will have to behave according."
"'Behave according'? Come, Mr. Haveril, I have given you a patient hearing. Pray, what do you mean by 'behave according'? But please—please tell me what you mean, or go away." He spread his hands helplessly. "I wish some one would come," he murmured, "and carry off this person."
"When you learn the truth, remember what I say now. I don't like you, nor the looks of you, nor the language of you, nor the ways of you. But there you are, and I'm bound to do something for you. Now, sir, make your mother happy; do what she wants, make her love you. And, well, your sort, I take it, is always wanting money; you never make any, and you are always spending. Make her happy, and you shall have as much as any young man can want in reason or out of reason. I know your manner of life, sir, and it's an expensive manner of life. You are in debt again; Lady Woodroffe has already paid your debts once or twice; champagne and cards and painted Jezebels—you shall have them all—all; I don't care what you want, you shall have everything, if you only behave properly to your mother."
Humphrey heard these words with real and breathless astonishment. There had been, it is true, many expostulations from his mother about extravagance and scandals; but could she have complained to this rough, coarse creature?
"I cannot for the life of me understand what you mean."
"Remember what I say, then."
"Mr. Haveril"—for once the young man spoke quite plainly and unaffectedly—"I assure you, although you assume that I know what you mean—I do not in the least. Can you explain why you take such an interest in my relations with my mother, not to speak of my personal character?"