you ever existed. Is that to be a father? Father, you say! A
word, a name - no more than that; a name that gives rise to a
sentiment, and a sentiment is to stand between you and your
clear duty; a sentiment is to set a protecting shield over the
man who killed your mother!

"I think I shall despise you, Justin, if you fail me in this.
I have lived for it," he ran on tempestuously. "I have reared
you for it, and you shall not fail me!"

Then his voice dropped again, and in quieter tones

"You hate the very name of John Caryll, Earl of Ostermore,"
said he, "as must every decent man who knows the truth of what
the life of that satyr holds. If I have suffered you to bear
his name, it is to the end that it should remind you daily
that you have no right to it, that you have no right to any
name."

When he said that he thrust his finger consciously into a raw
wound. He saw Justin wince, and with pitiless cunning he
continued to prod that tender place until he had aggravated
the smart of it into a very agony.

"That is what you owe your father; that is the full extent of
what lies between you - that you are of those at whom the
world is given to sneer and point scorn's ready finger."

"None has ever dared," said Mr. Caryll.