" Mr. Westcott finished the toast and
wiped his fingers on a very old and dirty red handkerchief. "Women--bless
them--angels for a time, but never to be depended on. Poor boy, I'm sorry.
Children?"
"I had a son. He died."
"Well now, I am indeed sorry, I'd have liked a grandson too. Don't want the
old Westcott stock to die out. Dear me, that is a pity."
It was at this point that Peter was aware, although he could not have given
any reasonable explanation of his certainty, that his father had been
perfectly assured beforehand of all the answers to these questions. Peter
looked at the man, but the eyes were almost closed, and the smile that
played about the weak lips--once so stern and strong--told one nothing.
It was dark now. Mr. Westcott got, somewhat unsteadily, to his feet.
"Come," he said, "I'll show you the house, my boy. Not changed much since
you were here, I'm sure. Wanted a woman's care since your dear mother died
of course--and your poor old grandfather--"
He whispered over again to himself as he shuffled across the room--"your
poor old grandfather--"
It had seemed to grow very suddenly dark. Outside in the hall, under the
spluttering lamp, Mr. Westcott found a candle. The house was intensely
silent.
As they climbed the stairs, lighted only by the flickering candle-light,
Peter's feelings were a curious mixture of uneasiness and a strange
unthinking somnolence.
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