“But suppose I was drunk when I came in, father—” he said.
“I don’t suppose anything of the sort—”
“No, but supposing I was. What advantage would there be in your seeing me? What good would it do?”
“At any rate I should know that there was a danger.”
“Well, if that’s all the trouble, we can soon get over it. I promise you, that I’ll tell you the very first time that I am in the least drunk. Then you needn’t worry about waiting for it. I suppose it’s bound to happen some day.”
“I sincerely hope it isn’t, Eddie. It isn’t pleasant to me to hear you talk like that.”
“No. . . . I suppose it would be pleasanter if we pretended that nothing of the kind ever happened. But it wouldn’t be honest, would it? I should think it’s the duty of every one to be drunk some time or other, if it’s only to see what it feels like. Surely, father, you—”
“Edwin, Edwin. . . . Really we mustn’t be personal. You forget that I’m your father.”
“But I don’t, father. I thought we were going to be such tremendous pals, and honestly there isn’t much to be pals on if you aren’t ever personal. We ought to talk about everything. We oughtn’t to hide anything. I don’t see much fun in it if I have to do all the telling and you don’t give anything in return. It isn’t fair.”
“But, my dear boy,” said Mr. Ingleby, with a nervous laugh, “you seem to neglect the fundamental fact that I’m your father.”