"George!" he said. "I want a quiet talk with you. It's about time, too! I seem to have been sitting in that chair for years without making a murmur. And you've thought my brains were dead. It must be this confounded climate of yours. But I'll show you."
He suddenly stopped and looked at Molly.
"I'm going to have a word with your father," he said. "Run in to Nanny for a few minutes, my dear."
As she left the room I had the feeling that something ominous was going to happen. I filled my pipe, lit it, sat down on the edge of the table and waited.
He did not speak for a few moments, but stood pulling pensively at his long, bushy beard—stroking and smoothing it as if it was the seat of all his wild unrest. It looked so quaint to see this poor, bent old grandfather of mine preparing to bully me, that I could hardly refrain from smiling. And yet there was something in his manner which demanded respect and attention.
"It's difficult to speak one's mind, George, after all the kindness you've shown me since I've been in England," he began, half-apologetically.
There was another long and contemplative pause, more tugging at his beard—and more curiosity on my part. But presently he broke free of his fetters and went straight ahead.
"Have you ever wished I were dead?" he asked, abruptly. "Don't be afraid to answer!"
"In moments of anger or weakness," I began tentatively, "I may—once or twice. . . ."
"Ah! That's nothing!"