But is he a new figure?
He advances a step out of the darkness. He is young and supple, about seventeen. I still have my eyes on him in the mirror. This moment he caught my glance! He steps nearer, keeping my eye and trying to laugh, and yet, oh, how wistful that look really is.
“Who the devil are you?” I asked, without turning from the mirror and half closing my eyes in an effort to search his countenance.
“Oh, I reckon you know who I am;” he said flippantly, with a Southern accent.
“Sit down, won’t you?” I said, without turning around to greet him. And then with impudence he sits himself down in the very chair which I had recently vacated. I still retain my position and watch him in the mirror.
Looking up at me, he began again:
“No one would think, from the manner in which you recognized me, that we are as closely related as father and son.”
“It’s a lie,” I answered, calmly, “why do you accuse me with a lie?”
“Oh, don’t excite yourself,” he came back, “I am the guilty party. I am the father and you are the son. Certainly you have often heard that the boy is father to the man?”
“Aye, and the child, sire to the boy.”