A close observer might have seen the muscles of his jaw harden as he uttered the final sentence. He intended that his father should take it as a threat, not as an apology.
Brood was watching him closely, a puzzled expression in his eyes; gradually it developed into something like admiration. In the clamour of voices that ensued the older man detected the presence of an underlying note of censure for his own behaviour. For the first time in many years he experienced a feeling of shame.
Someone was speaking at his elbow. Janey, in her young, enthusiastic voice, shrilled something into his ear that caused him to look at her in utter amazement. It was so astounding that he could not believe he heard aright. He mumbled in a questioning tone, “I beg your pardon,” and she repeated her remark.
“How wonderfully like you Frederic is, Mr Brood.” Then she added: “Do you know, I've never noticed it until to-night? It's really remarkable.”
“Indeed,” Brood responded somewhat icily.
“Don't you think so, Mr Brood?”
“No, I do not, Miss Janey,” said he distinctly.
“Maisie Gunning was speaking of it just a few minutes ago,” went on the girl, unimpressed. “She says you are very much alike when you are—are———” here she foundered in sudden confusion.
“Intoxicated?” he inquired, without a smile.
She blushed painfully. “No, no! When you are angry. There, I suppose I shouldn't have said it, but———”