But Stacey set his back against the door. “No, sir,” he returned, “let’s have this out. I’ll concede that I was wrong to do this in this way. Now you go ahead and tell me some more things.”
His father stood there, looking at him keenly, antagonistically, judging him. Mr. Carroll’s upper lip was drawn in a little, and there was a harshness about his face. One could see that he had fought hard fights in life and that he was still an adversary to be reckoned with.
“I am not aware,” he began coldly, “of being in my dotage—yet. If anybody wants anything from me the thing for him to do is to come and ask me for it; then if I think he ought to have it he’ll get it. I’ll be damned if I’ll be cosseted and cajoled into a good humor so that something can be wormed out of me.”
Absolutely justified, his father was, Stacey thought helplessly. “You’re perfectly right, sir,” he said, “and I apologize, My only excuse for not being frank—and I admit it’s not good enough—is that I was so confoundedly anxious for you to hear Edwards’ story, and was fool enough to think you might refuse if I asked you to, point-blank.”
For just an instant Stacey glanced away to Catherine and saw with sharp regret that her eyes were full of pain. Why the devil had he let her in for this? Then he looked back at his father.
But Mr. Carroll’s wrath was not assuaged, and when he spoke again Stacey perceived that a long resentment, dangerously repressed, had burst loose finally.
“You take me for a damned fool,” Mr. Carroll went on angrily. “I’m a fool perhaps, but not a damned fool. Do you think I can’t see how you humor me?—the nice, kindly, tolerant spirit you show for my foibles, your ‘poor-dad-he’s-growing-old’ attitude! Superior, sir! Intolerably superior!”
This was pretty bad, and all the worse for the tiny element of truth it contained. “Now look here, dad!” Stacey pleaded. “That’s not so. There isn’t anybody in the world I respect more than I do you. Why—”
“Extraordinary method of showing it you take, then!” snapped his father. “Respect—nothing! At heart you’re a Bolshevist, sir. Well, then, if you are, be one! You’re not consistent. You’re a Bolshevist in theory” (“Oh, Lord! I haven’t got any theories!” Stacey thought, but did not try to say), “a millionaire in practice. I gave you a tidy fortune. You took it, didn’t you? You live here with me in a certain amount of luxury. Well, why do you? Why don’t you go and live in a hut?” He paused, out of breath, glaring at his son.
Stacey was pale; for this hurt. But he was further than before from losing his temper, since now the attack was unjust. To his amazement, and certainly to Mr. Carroll’s as well, it was Catherine who lost her temper—or almost.