"Mother," he said, speaking with a distinct slowness, in strange contrast with his habitual manner, "tell me the truth, that I may know how to act."
He paused a moment, and then said, "Who is my father?"
She was mute: her lips only trembled. Harold stood silent for a few moments, as if waiting. Then he spoke again.
"He has said—said it before others—that he is my father."
He looked still at his mother. She seemed as if age were striking her with a sudden wand—as if her trembling face were getting haggard before him. She was mute. But her eyes had not fallen; they looked up in helpless misery at her son.
Her son turned away his eyes from her, and left her. In that moment Harold felt hard: he could show no pity. All the pride of his nature rebelled against his sonship.
