He turned on her in a violence renewed. “I declare to you that if he had gone to prison I would not have raised a hand to stop him. He’d had the grace—or he’d all the time had the guile—to give an assumed name. Would I have confessed, to save him, that he was my son? I believe I couldn’t. He got off with a fine. I got hold of him. I’ve brought him back. He’s here.”
She went to the bell. “I must get you some food.”
He stayed her. “Food! I’ll tell you what to get me. I’ll tell you what to get that boy. Get me a home. Get him a home. That’s what’s caused this. Do you know what he said to me coming up in the train? I said to him, ‘Why are you always away like this? Why, in the holidays, are you never at home?’ He said, ‘What home is there for me to come to? Who’s ever there?’ He’s right. Who is? Are you?”
She said quietly, “Harry, not now. Dear, you are not yourself.”
He was not and continued not to be. “Well, answer my question. Are you ever in the home?”
She implored, “Oh, my dear!”
He was not to be placated. “Where is the home?”
“Harry!”
“Where’s Doda?”
She began in her spirit to move. “Staying with friends.”