Peter laughed and tried to wriggle past him; but his father held him firmly, saying, “I meant what I said.”
Looking down, Peter saw the face of his friend glance back at him; it was lined and tortured. Then the front door closed with a bang.
Barrington re-entered his study. Now that he had accomplished the difficult cruelty his mind was in doubt. If Peter loved Ocky, there must be some good left in him——
But he had used that argument with himself before. As he sat, pictures began to form of Ocky as he had been. He saw him about Peter’s age, the weakly schoolboy whose battles he had had to fight because he was strong. He recalled that term when he had had to take him to the doctor with his poisoned hand. He remembered how Ocky’s mother had always said of him that he was the most careful and dearest son in the world—— No, he hadn’t been always bad.
His thoughts became unbearable; he needed approval for his act. Stepping out on to the landing he called, “Nan, Nan.”
When she came he was again seated in his chair. The lights were out and a log of ship’s wood, spluttering on the coals, burnt violet and yellow, making the shadows wag accusing fingers. She curled herself up on the floor, leaning her head against his knees, like a small child at the story hour, before it goes to bed.
Nan always brought an atmosphere of kindness with her—of innocence and goodness. Her ways were those of a young girl, who walks on tiptoe with hands upon her breast, listening for life to call her. Barrington watched her shining head and how the fire glinted against the column of her throat. If Ocky had had a wife like Nan———-
It was some time before she spoke. Then, “Dearest?”
“I had to be a brute and I hate myself. I kicked him out.”
“Do you think you did right?”