He uttered a sound that was half-laugh and half-groan. “You’ve got to know it. Yes, he is my father, but I only endure him for my mother’s sake. I have wished him dead for years. I wish it more than ever now.”
“Oh, hush!” Frances said. “Please don’t say it! Don’t think it! You will be so sorry afterwards.”
“Why should I be sorry?” he said sombrely. “Do you think I shall ever regret him? He who has all my life stood in the way of my gaining anything I hold worth having? It’s too late now. My chances are gone. And I don’t complain—even to you. As I say, his brain is affected. He suffers from delusions. I have got to bear with him to the end. So what is the good?”
She could not answer him. Only, after a few seconds, she said quietly, “I think I should be too sorry for him to—hate him.”
“I wonder,” said Arthur.
He stood for a few moments looking at her. Then, very abruptly: “Is that by any chance the reason why you don’t hate me?” he said.
She met his look unflinching. “No,” she said. “At least not entirely.”
“There is another reason?” he questioned.
She bent her head.
“And I am not to know what it is?” His voice was low but it held urgency.