Did you know it?—was it by your advice he came?—what could be his motive in coming? or was it done merely for a whim—-just like Francis Charteris.
Anywhere else I believe I could not have recognised him. Not from his shabbiness; even in rags Francis would be something of the gentleman; but from his utterly broken-down appearance, his look of hopeless indifference, settled discontent; the air of a man who has tried all things and found them vanity.
Seeing me, he instinctively set down the child, who clung to his knees, screaming loudly to “Daddy.”
Francis blushed violently, and then laughed. “The brat owns me, you see; he has not forgotten me—likes me also a little, which cannot be said for most people. Heyday, no getting rid of him? Come along then, young man; I must e'en make the best of you.”
Franky, nothing loth, clambered up, hugged him smotheringly round the neck, and broke into his own triumphant “Ha! ha! he! “—His father turned and kissed him.
Then, somehow, I felt as if, it were easier to speak to Francis Charteris. Only a word or two—enquiries about his health—how long he had left Liverpool—and whether he meant to return.
“Of course. Only a day's holiday. A horse in a mill—that is what I am now. Nothing for it but to grind on to the end of the chapter—eh, Franky my boy!”
“Ha! ha! he!” screamed the child, with another delighted hug.
“He seems fond of you,” I said.
“Oh yes; he always was.” Francis sighed. I am sure, nature was tugging hard at the selfish pleasure-loving heart. And pity—I know it was not wrong, Max!—was pulling sore at mine.