I can hardly
discuss with--with--- with a woman."

And just then a peacock strutted through the court-yard, startling the
still air with its empty scream.

Mrs. Ritson colored deeply. Even modesty like hers had been put to a
severe strain. But she dropped her eyes again, finished a row of
stitches, rested the steel needle on her lip, and answered quietly:

"Surely a woman may talk of what concerns her husband and her children."

The great man had resumed his knife and fork.

"Not necessarily," he said. "It is a strange and curious fact that there
is one condition in which the law does not recognize the right of a
woman to call her son her own."

During this prolonged speech, Hugh Ritson, fresh from his interview with
Greta Lowther, entered the room, and stretched himself on the couch.

Mrs. Ritson, without shifting the determination of her gaze from the
nervous fingers in her lap, said:

"What condition?"

Mr. Bonnithorne twisted slightly, and glanced significantly at Hugh as
he answered:

"The condition of illegitimacy."

Something supercilious in the tone jarred on Mrs. Ritson's ear. She
looked up from her knitting, and said:

"What do you mean?"

Bonnithorne placed his knife and fork with precision over his empty
plate, used his napkin with deliberation, coughed slightly, and said: "I
mean that the law denies the name of son to offspring that has been
bastardized."

Mrs. Ritson's face grew crimson, and she rose to her feet.

"If so, the law is cruel and wicked," she said in a voice more tremulous
with emotion.

Mr. Bonnithorne leaned languidly back in his chair, ejected a long "hem"
from his overburdened chest, inserted his fingers in the armpits of his
waistcoat, looked up, and said: "Odd, isn't it?"

Unluckily for the full effect of Mr. Bonnithorne's subtle witticism,
Paul Ritson, with Greta at his side, appeared in the door-way at the
moment of its delivery. The manner more than the words had awakened his
anger, and the significance of both he interpreted by his mother's
agitated face. In two strides he stepped up to where the great man sat,
even now all smiles and white teeth, and laid a powerful hand on his
arm.

"My friend," said Paul, lustily, "it might not be safe for you to speak
to my mother again like that!"

Mr. Bonnithorne rose stiffly, and his shifty eyes looked into Paul's
wrathful face.

"Safe?" he echoed with emphasis.

Paul, his lips compressed, bent his head, and at th