t is my brother."

I greeted him as warmly as I could, but my manner was slightly confused,
as I had not had time to recover my composure. This so-called brother of
Therese was my living image, though his complexion was rather clearer
than mine. I saw at once that he was my son; nature had never been so
indiscreet as in the amazing likeness between us. This, then, was the
surprise of which Therese had spoken; she had devised the pleasure of
seeing me at once astounded and delighted, for she knew that my heart
would be touched at the thought of having left her such a pledge of our
mutual love. I had not the slightest foreknowledge in the matter, for
Therese had never alluded to her being with child in her letters. I
thought, however, that she should not have brought about this meeting in
the presence of a third party, for everyone has eyes in their head, and
anyone with eyes must have seen that the young man was either my son or
my brother. I glanced at her, but she avoided meeting my eye, while the
pretended brother was looking at me so attentively that he did not hear
what was said to him. As to the others, they did nothing but look first
at me and then at him, and if they came to the conclusion that he was my
son they would be obliged to suppose that I had been the lover of
Therese's mother, if she were really his sister, for taking into
consideration the age she looked and gave herself out to be she could not
possibly be his mother. It was equally impossible that I could be
Therese's father, as I did not look any older than she did.

My son spoke the Neapolitan dialect perfectly, but he also spoke Italian
very well, and in whatever he said I was glad to recognize taste, good
sense, and intelligence. He was well-informed, though he had been brought
up at Naples, and his manners were very distinguished. His mother made
him sit between us at table.

"His favourite amusement," she said to me, "is music. You must hear him
on the clavier, and though I am eight years older I shall not be
surprised if you pronounce him the better performer."

Only a woman's delicate instinct could have suggested this remark; men
hardly ever approach women in this respect.

Whether from natural impulses or self-esteem, I rose from the table so
delighted with my son that I embraced him with the utmost tenderness, and
was applauded by the company. I asked everybody to dine with me the next
day, and my invitation was joyfully accepted; but t