Wint stopped and looked at him.
“Haven’t you given me a right to think—to mistrust you?” the older man challenged.
“Yes,” said Wint.
“You’ve shamed me; and you’ve come near breaking your mother’s heart.”
Wint found it hard to speak; and when he did speak, he said more than he had meant to say. “I want to make amends, sir,” he told his father.
“There are some hurts that can’t be mended,” said Chase inexorably.
Wint nodded; his shoulders slumped a little, and he would have turned again to the door. “I’ve said all I can say,” he explained, “so I guess I’d better go.”
Chase shook his head. “See here, Wint,” he said. “Listen.” There was not yet friendliness in his voice; but there was a neutral quality that held Wint. “Listen,” said Chase. “I’ve learned some things, too, Wint. It’s only fair to say that I can see, now, I was a—bumptious father. And I’ve not changed. I’m too old to change. Probably there were ways where I wronged you. I don’t doubt it.”
“No,” said Wint. “You were always decent to me.”
“A father can be—decent to his son, without playing fair with him,” said his father. “A father can—give things to his son, and at the same time rob him of better things by the giving.”