He had spoken with such emphasis that he closed his eyes with an expression of great lassitude.
"I don't like it," protested Roger, helpless in the face of his father's iron determination; "it's too much responsibility."
"Not too much," retorted his father calmly.
"And besides, you know yourself that Thérèse won't like it, either.
She—she may resent it very deeply."
There was a pause, then the heavy eyebrows went up with a slightly ironical movement.
"Don't trouble your head about Thérèse; leave her to me."
There was nothing to be done; any further objection might cause the old man serious annoyance. Roger's only hope lay in waiting till his father was well, when, perhaps, he might renew the argument. Accordingly he gave in with a good grace.
"Oh, very well, there's no more to be said about it. By the way, have you told Thérèse?"
"Not yet. I wanted to speak to you first. But I shall broach the subject to her … when I feel equal to it."
The dry humour in this last phrase caused Roger to wonder if, after all, his father was quite as blind as he thought him. Did he suspect the baccarat story? Was this a diabolical plan for getting even? There was no way of knowing; the old chap would keep his counsel till the last gasp. Yet, as Roger gazed on the mask-like face, he thought that his father's decision constituted a delicate and appropriate revenge for many a secret indignity.