Frederic strode rapidly into the room.
CHAPTER VIII
His face was livid with rage. For a moment he glowered upon the two old men, his fingers working spasmodically, his chest heaving with the volcanic emotions he was trying so hard to subdue. Then he whirled about to glare into the hall.
“In God's name, Freddy, what's happened?” cried Mr Riggs, all a-tremble.
They had never seen him in a rage before. There had been occasions when they had secretly criticised James Brood's treatment of the unhappy boy, but from the youth himself there had come no complaint, only the hurt, puzzled look of one who endures because an alternative does not suggest itself. Intuitively the old men knew that his present condition was due to something his father had said or done, and that it must have been unusually severe to have provoked the wrath that he made no effort to conceal.
It was not in their honest old hearts to hold grievance against the lad, notwithstanding his frequent periods of impatience where they were concerned, periods when they were admittedly as much at fault as he, by the way. Usually he made up for these lapses by a protracted season of sweetness and consideration that won back not only their sympathy, but the affection they had felt for him since his lonely boyhood days.
Some minutes passed before he could trust himself to speak. Ugly veins stood out on his pale temples as he paced the floor in front of them. Eventually Mr Dawes ventured the vital question in a somewhat hushed voice:
“Have you—quarrelled with your father, Freddy?”