Peter stood erect with his hands behind him, his curly head thrown back and his knickerbockered legs close together. “You mustn’t be kind to me, father. It makes it harder. I’m going to hurt you.”
Barrington had never felt prouder of his son. He rested his chin on his fingers and nodded. “Go on.”
In a low, tremulous voice he told him all, keeping the tears back bravely. When he paused, his father waited; he wanted to hear Peter’s own story without frightening him by interruption. He had had an important engagement that evening, but he let it slide. As the account progressed he saw that here was something really serious. And yet how Peterish it was to feel so poignantly the unjust punishing of Romance! The humor of it all vanished when Peter told how Uncle Waffles had been arrested.
“And then,” he said, “I came straight home to tell you. I don’t suppose you’ll want me to live here any longer. It wouldn’t be good for Kay; I’m too wicked. I’m almost too bad for anybody. Kay—Kay’ll never be able to love me any more.”
They gazed at each other in silence. Barrington did not dare to trust himself to talk; he knew that his voice would be unsteady. He was frightened he would sink below Peter’s standard and give way to crying. He had to keep his eyes quite still for fear the tears would fall. And he recalled the last confession that this room had heard—it was from Ocky. He compared it with Peter’s.
The minutes dragged on. Peter watched his father’s face; he saw there the worst thing of all—sorrow.
A coal falling in the grate took their attention for a moment from themselves.
Barrington leant further forward. “What made you do it, Peter?”
“I loved him.”
“But what made you love him when you came to know all?”