"Don't be silly, Father, and make a scene before Meller. Finish your
dinner."
He did not answer. He was not going to sit there to be dragooned and
insulted! His helplessness had never so weighed on him before. It was
like a revelation. A log--that had to put up with anything! A log! And,
waiting for his valet to return, he cunningly took up his fork.
In that saintly voice of hers she said:
"I suppose you don't realise that it's a shock to me. I don't know what
Ernest will think--"
"Ernest be d---d."
"I do wish, Father, you wouldn't swear."
Old Heythorp's rage found vent in a sort of rumble. How the devil had he
gone on all these years in the same house with that woman, dining with
her day after day! But the servant had come back now, and putting down
his fork he said:
"Help me up!"
The man paused, thunderstruck, with the souffle balanced. To leave
dinner unfinished--it was a portent!
"Help me up!"
"Mr. Heythorp's not very well, Meller; take his other arm."
The old man shook off her hand.
"I'm very well. Help me up. Dine in my own room in future."
Raised to his feet, he walked slowly out; but in his sanctum he did
not sit down, obsessed by this first overwhelming realisation of his
helplessness.
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