"Yes, yes," murmured the hypocrite, "for my dear mother's sake--my mother, so good, so loving, so tender-hearted!"
"Let this be the last time," said the father sternly.
"It shall be, it shall be!" murmured the son.
It was a formula. The father may sometimes have deceived himself into belief; the son, never. Even while he was humbling himself he would be casting about for the next throw.
This continued for some considerable time, but at length came the crash. Chaytor and his parents were seated at breakfast at nine o'clock. The father had the morning letters in his pocket; he had read them and put them by. He cast but one glance at his son, and Chaytor turned pale and winced. He saw that the storm was about to burst. As usual, nothing was said before Mrs. Chaytor. The meal was over, she kissed her son, and left the room to attend to her domestic affairs.
"I must be off," said Chaytor. "Mustn't be late this morning. A lot to attend to at the office."
"You need not hurry," said the father. "I have something to say to you."
"Won't it keep till the evening?"
"No. It must be said here and now." He stepped to the door and locked it. "We will spare her as long as possible; she will know soon enough."
"Oh, all right," said Chaytor sullenly. "Fire away."