Herminia’s face turned deadly white; she knew it had come at last.  But still she never flinched.  “You shall hear the truth from me, darling,” she said, with a gentle touch.  “You have always heard it.”

They passed under the doorway and up the stairs in silence.  As soon as they were in the sitting-room, Dolly fronted Herminia fiercely.  “Mother,” she cried, with the air of a wild creature at bay, “were you married to my father?”

Herminia’s cheek blanched, and her pale lips quivered as she nerved herself to answer; but she answered bravely, “No, darling, I was not.  It has always been contrary to my principles to marry.”

“Your principles!” Dolores echoed in a tone of ineffable, scorn.  “Your principles!  Your principles!  All my life has been sacrificed to you and your principles!” Then she turned on her madly once more.  “And who was my father?” she burst out in her agony.

Herminia never paused.  She must tell her the truth.  “Your father’s name was Alan Merrick,” she answered, steadying herself with one hand on the table.  “He died at Perugia before you were born there.  He was a son of Sir Anthony Merrick, the great doctor in Harley Street.”

The worst was out.  Dolly stood still and gasped.  Hot horror flooded her burning cheeks.  Illegitimate! illegitimate!  Dishonored from her birth!  A mark for every cruel tongue to aim at!  Born in shame and disgrace!  And then, to think what she might have been, but for her mother’s madness!  The granddaughter of two such great men in their way as the Dean of Dunwich and Sir Anthony Merrick.

She drew back, all aghast.  Shame and agony held her.  Something of maiden modesty burned bright in her cheek and down her very neck.  Red waves coursed through her.  How on earth after this could she face Walter Brydges?

“Mother, mother!” she broke out, sobbing, after a moment’s pause, “oh, what have you done?  What have you done?  A cruel, cruel mother you have been to me.  How can I ever forgive you?”

Herminia gazed at her appalled.  It was a natural tragedy.  There was no way out of it.  She couldn’t help seizing the thing at once, in a lightning flash of sympathy, from Dolly’s point of view, too.  Quick womanly instinct made her heart bleed for her daughter’s manifest shame and horror.

“Dolly, Dolly,” the agonized mother cried, flinging herself upon her child’s mercy, as it were; “Don’t be hard on me; don’t be hard on me!  My darling, how could I ever guess you would look at it like this?  How could I ever guess my daughter and his would see things for herself in so different a light from the light we saw them in?”

“You had no right to bring me into the world at all,” Dolly cried, growing fiercer as her mother grew more unhappy.  “If you did, you should have put me on an equality with other people.”