"I understand you," said he, with his cynic, repellent smile. "But you do wrong to feel for my loss. I feel for it; but no one who cares for me should sympathize with my grief."
"Why?"
"Because my mother was not what the world would call a good woman. I did not love her the less for that. And now let us change the subject."
"Nay; since you have said so much, Vivian, let me coax you to say on.
Is not your father living?"
"Is not the Monument standing?"
"I suppose so; what of that?"
"Why, it matters very little to either of us; and my question answers yours."
I could not get on after this, and I never did get on a step further. I must own that if Vivian did not impart his confidence liberally, neither did he seek confidence inquisitively from me. He listened with interest if I spoke of Trevanion (for I told him frankly of my connection with that personage, though you may be sure that I said nothing of Fanny), and of the brilliant world that my residence with one so distinguished opened to me. But if ever, in the fulness of my heart, I began to speak of my parents, of my home, he evinced either so impertinent an ennui or assumed so chilling a sneer that I usually hurried away from him, as well as the subject, in indignant disgust. Once especially, when I asked him to let me introduce him to my father,—a point on which I was really anxious, for I thought it impossible but that the devil within him would be softened by that contact,—he said, with his low, scornful laugh,—
"My dear Caxton, when I was a child I was so bored with 'Telemachus' that, in order to endure it, I turned it into travesty."
"Well?"