“Well, then,” said Conyers, “if you have n't courage for this, let me do it; let me speak to your father.”
“What could you say to him?” asked Tom, doggedly.
“Say to him?—what could I say to him?” repeated he, as he lighted a fresh cigar, and affected to be eagerly interested in the process. “It's clear enough what I 'd say to him.”
“Let us hear it, then,” growled out Tom, for he had a sort of coarse enjoyment at the other's embarrassment. “I 'll be the doctor now, and listen to you.” And with this he squared his chair full in front of Conyers, and crossed his arms imposingly on his chest “You said you wanted to speak to me about my son Tom, Mr. Conyers; what is it you have to say?”
“Well, I suppose I'd open the matter delicately, and, perhaps, adroitly. I 'd say, 'I have remarked, doctor, that your son is a young fellow of very considerable abilities—'”
“For what?” broke in Tom, huskily.
“Come, you 're not to interrupt in this fashion, or I can't continue. I 'd say something about your natural cleverness; and what a pity it would be if, with very promising talents, you should not have those fair advantages which lead a man to success in life.”
“And do you know what he 'd say to all that?”
“No.”
“Well, I'll tell you. He'd say 'Bother!' Just 'bother.'”