“She is quite well apparently,” he said, “and she——”
“She asked after me?” suggested his father.
“Yes, she asked after you. She hoped you were—comfortable, I think she said.”
“Comfortable! My God! Comfortable!”
Peter waited till this paroxysm of irony was spent.
“I ought to have written to her to-day,” he said, “but I didn’t. I shall write to-morrow. What shall I tell her about you?”
“What your heart bids you,” said he. “Tell her about me, as I am. Miserable, homeless, except for the charity of my children. I count Silvia as a child,” he explained.
Peter felt absolutely relentless.
“So you long for her to come back to you,” he said. “I will tell her.”
He regarded Peter with his chin in the hollow of his hand.