The bent head was lifted with an effort, and the keen eyes were fixed on the young man, who came forward to take the crooked, half-extended hand.
“What Gilbert Potter?” he croaked.
Mr. Alfred bit his lips, and looked both embarrassed and annoyed. But he could do no less than say,—
“Mary Potter's son.”
Gilbert straightened himself proudly, as if to face a coming insult. After a long, steady gaze, the old man gave one of his hieroglyphic snorts, and then muttered to him self,—“Looks like her.”
During the meal, he was so occupied with the labor of feeding himself, that he seemed to forget Gilbert's presence. Bending his head sideways, from time to time, he jerked out a croaking question, which his son, whatever annoyance he might feel, was forced to answer according to the old man's humor.
“In at the Doctor's, boy?”
“A few minutes, daddy, before we came together.”
“See her? Was she at home?”
“Yes,” came very shortly from Mr. Alfred's lips; he clenched his fists under the table-cloth.