Peter saw
that his father was wearing under the dressing-gown a white waistcoat and
blue trousers, both of them stained with dark stains and smelling very
strongly of whisky. He noticed also that his father seemed to find it
difficult to balance himself on both his legs at the same time, and that
he was continually shifting his feet in an indeterminate kind of way, as
though he would like to dance but felt that it might not be quite the
thing.
Mr. Westcott closed up both his eyes, opened his mouth and shut it again
and shook Peter excitedly by the hand. At the same time Peter felt that
his father was shaking his hand as much because he wanted to hold on to
something as for reasons of courtesy.
"Well, I am glad. I wondered when you would come to see your poor old
father again--after all these years. I've often thought of you and said to
myself, 'Well, he'll come back one day. You only be patient,' I've said to
myself, 'and your son will come back to you--your only son, and it isn't
likely that he's going to desert you altogether.'"
"Yes, father, I've come back," said Peter, releasing his hand. "I've come
back to stay."
He thought of the many times in London when he'd pictured his father,
stern and dark, pulling the wires, dragging his wicked son back to him--he
thought of that ... and now this. And yet....
"Well now, isn't that pleasant--you've come to stay! Could I have wanted
anything better? Come and sit down--yes, that chair--and have something to
drink.
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