Tom's legs which had quaked at first, began to be surer under him.
"Please don't think I'm venturing to criticize anyone or anything.
This is your life, and it suits you. It wouldn't suit me because it
isn't mine. The past makes me as it makes you, and it's too late now
to unmake us. It's possible that I may be Harry Whitelaw. When I hear
the evidence that can be produced I can almost think I am. But if I
_am_ Harry Whitelaw by birth, I'm _not_ Harry Whitelaw by life and
experience. I can't go back and be made over. I'm myself as I stand."
Still having in his hand the pictures of Lucy Speight, he held them
out. "To all intents and purposes this is--my mother."
"And I kissed you!"
Tom smiled. "Yes, but you don't know how she kissed me. I do. She loved
me. I loved her. I've tried--I've tried my very best--to turn my back
on her--to call her a thief--and any other name that would blacken
her--and--and I can't do it."
The sleeping lioness in the mother was roused suddenly. Leaving her
place behind the tea-table, she advanced near enough to him to point to
the two photographs.
"Do you mean to say that--having the choice between--that--and me--you
choose--that?"
"I don't choose. I can't do anything else. It isn't what you think that
rules your life; it's what you love. I'm one of the people to whom love
means more than anything else. I daresay it's a weakness--especially in
a man--but that's the way it is."
"If your first stipulation is love...."
"Wouldn't it be yours, Onora?"
"I'd try to be reasonable--when so many concessions have been made."
"Yes," Tom hastened to say, "but that's just my point. I'm not asking
for concessions. The minute they must be made--well, I'm not there. I
couldn't come into your family--on concessions."