“Your mother before you had a somewhat similar affliction,” he said, still in the steady, repressed voice. “Perhaps it is a gift—a convenient gift—this ability to worship without effort.”
“Better leave my mother out of it,” said Frederic sarcastically. A look of wonder leaped to his eyes. “That's the first time you've condescended to acknowledge that I ever had a mother.”
“I shall soon make you regret that you were ever so blessed as to have had one.”
“You've always made it easy for me to regret that I ever had a father.”
Brood's smile was deadly.
“If you have anything more to say to me, you had better get it over. Purge your soul of all the gall that embitters it. I grant you that privilege. Take your innings.”
A spasm of pain crossed Frederic's face.
“Yes, I am entitled to my innings. I'll go back to what I said downstairs. I thought I loved and honoured you last night. I would have forgiven everything if you had granted me a friendly—friendly, that's all—just a friendly word. You denied———”
“I suppose you want me to believe that it was love for me that brought you slinking to the theatre,” said the other ironically.
“I don't expect you to believe anything. I was lonely. I wanted to be with you and Yvonne. Curse you! Can't you understand how lonely I've been all my life? Can't you understand how hungry I am for the affection that every other boy I've known has had from his parents? I've never asked you about my mother. I used to wonder a good deal. Every other boy had a mother. I never had one. I couldn't understand it. And they all had fathers, but they were not like my father. Their fathers were kind and loving, they were interested in everything their sons did—good or bad. I used to love the fathers of all those other lucky boys at school. They came often—and so did the mothers. No one ever came to see me—no one!