"Ah, but I know. It's just nothing."
His listener rose and moved to and fro in agitation.
"You've no right to say that. How can you tell? How can anybody tell? You touch me very nearly. I am a parent. I think—I seem to myself to have done much, very much, given constant thought for my children, yet to Theresa how do I appear? Careless of her, perhaps, selfish, obtuse. I do not know. There's a chasm opened before one—a chasm of ignorance and doubt. One treads so falsely, takes the wrong path, and to her the way to help her may be so plain. Human beings, all of us, yet we speak strange tongues. The Tower of Babel with us still—still. It may be that you misunderstand your father's language, Alexander."
"He never speaks."
"Ah, don't be wilful. Under that ill-temper I believe he suffers."
"But why should I pity him? It's his fault."
"That's why you should pity him. That's the worst suffering."
Alexander shook his head. "I can't feel anything for him but hate. I hate the things he's touched; I hate to think I'm of his flesh."
"That's wickedness."
"Maybe. I feel all black inside. I'm burnt up like a cinder." He went to the door. "She's coming back. I'll make the tea."