"Stories?"
"Not exactly——"
"Poems?" My father's look was tragic.
"No."
And I tried to explain what I had been doing. But my attempts to tell him of my work in Paris were as forced and as pathetic as his efforts to attend. More and more halting grew our talk, and it ended in a silence that seemed to have no end. Then I went to the fireplace, knocked the ashes out of my pipe, refilled it and relit it. When I returned he was reading his book, and with deep relief I took up mine. That much of it was over.
But again I found myself watching him. What was in my father's mind? Why this anxious almost humble tone? It made me wince, it made me ashamed. I sat there all evening pretending to read and feeling that he was doing the same.
"Good night, dad—I think I'll go to bed." Even this little came clumsily. I had never called him "dad" before.
"Good night, my boy. See you at breakfast."
"Yes, sir."
I glanced back as I turned down the hall and saw him staring after me.