“Your father has given up the pernicious habit,” he said, with a grin, “but I thought, perhaps, he’d break his rule for once on such a stupendous occasion as this. Let us pledge you in a full bumper, Mr. Renalt.”
“Pledge whom you like,” I answered, surlily, “but don’t ask a return from me. I don’t drink spirit.”
“Then you miss a very exquisite and esthetic pleasure, I may say. Try it this only time. Glasses, Mr. Trender.”
I saw my father waver, and guessed this unwonted liberality on the part of the doctor was calculated to some end of his own. In an access of rage I seized the full bottle and spun it with all my might against the wooden wall of the room. It crashed into a thousand flying splinters, and the pungent liquor flooded the floor beneath.
For an instant the doctor stood quite dumfounded, and went all the colors of the prism. Then he walked very gently to the door and turned on the threshold.
“You were always an unlicked cub,” he said, softly, “but this transcends all your past pleasantries.”
“I mean it too,” I said, still in a towering passion. “I intend it as a hint that you had best keep away from here. I’ve no cause to remember you with love, and from this time, understand, you’ve no claim of friendship upon this household.”
“I will remember,” he said. “I always do. Perhaps I’ve another sort of claim, though. Who knows?”
He nodded at me grimly once or twice, like an evil mandarin, and walked off, down the stairs.
I looked at my father. He was sitting, his hands clasping the elbows of his chair, with a wild, lost look upon his face.