Gino had stooped down by the way, and was feeling the place where his son had lain. Now and then he frowned a little and glanced at Philip.
“It is through me,” he continued. “It happened because I was cowardly and idle. I have come to know what you will do.”
Gino had left the rug, and began to pat the table from the end, as if he was blind. The action was so uncanny that Philip was driven to intervene.
“Gently, man, gently; he is not here.”
He went up and touched him on the shoulder.
He twitched away, and began to pass his hands over things more rapidly—over the table, the chairs, the entire floor, the walls as high as he could reach them. Philip had not presumed to comfort him. But now the tension was too great—he tried.
“Break down, Gino; you must break down. Scream and curse and give in for a little; you must break down.”
There was no reply, and no cessation of the sweeping hands.
“It is time to be unhappy. Break down or you will be ill like my sister. You will go—”
The tour of the room was over. He had touched everything in it except Philip. Now he approached him. He face was that of a man who has lost his old reason for life and seeks a new one.