There is my mother all over! She is your enemy, remember--not your friend.

She is not in search of your merits, but of your faults.

And you wonder why no impression was produced on her when she heard you addressed by your name! Poor innocent! I can tell you this--you only discovered my mother in her own character when I put an end to the mystification by presenting you to each other.

You saw how angry she was, and now you know why." I let him go on without saying a word.

I listened--oh! with such a heavy heart, with such a crushing sense of disenchantment and despair! The idol of my worship, the companion, guide, protector of my life--had he fallen so low?
could he stoop to such shameless prevarication as this?
Was there one word of truth in all that he had said to me?
Yes! If I had not discovered his mother's portrait, it was certainly true that I should not have known, not even have vaguely suspected, who she really was.