He entered the room and his father gave way before him. He had forgotten the evident traces of his recent tears, and stood with his eyelashes still glistening and his cheeks wet and scalded. But his brows were drawn level and his jaw was thrust out beneath the tightened lips in a way which brought out the family likeness with amazing force.
‘Well,’ said his father. ‘Say your say, and go.’
‘I shall say my say,’ the younger man responded. ‘Spain is not the place. Castle Barfield is the place. The Beacon Hill is the place. This house is the place.’
‘So you have been eavesdropping?’
‘You know I haven’t,’ Polson answered in cold disdain. ‘But I’m not going to follow that red herring. I say Spain’s not the place—unless——’
He choked and stammered and could go no further.
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless—oh, my God! how can I say it? Unless my father and his cousin are a brace of rascals.’
‘That’s pretty language from an only son.’
‘Yes. It’s pretty language. Give me a chance to take it back, and change it.’