What, you won't? Well, perhaps later. So you've come to keep your
old father company, have you? I'm sure that's delightful. Just what a son
ought to do. We shall get along very well, I'm sure."
All the while that his father talked, still holding the toast and the glass
of something, Peter was intensely conscious of the silent listening house.
After all that grimness, that desertion, the old woman's warning had gone
for something. And yet, in spite of a kind of dread that hung about him,
in spite of a kind of perception that there was a great deal more in his
father than he at present perceived, he could not resist a kind of warm
pleasure that here at any rate was some sort of a haven, that no one else
in the world might want him, but here was some one who was glad to see him.
"Well, my boy, tell me all you've been doing these years."
"I've been in London, writing--"
"Dear, dear--have you really now? And how's it all turned out?"
"Badly."
"Dear me, I'm sorry for that. But there are better things in the world than
writing, believe me. I dare say, my boy, you thought me unkind in those
old days but it was all for your best--oh dear me, yes, entirely for your
best."
Here, for an instant, his father's voice sounded so like his old
grandfather's that Peter jumped.
"Married?" said his father.
"My wife has left me--"
"Dear me, I am sorry to hear that.
Pages:
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634