‘Who are you?’ he asked at length.
Rodman laughed as heartily as if there had been nothing disagreeable in the situation.
‘I have the honour to be your father, sir,’ he replied. ‘You’re a fine boy, Jack—a deuced fine boy.’
The child was speechless. Rodman turned to the mother. Her hands held the rail at the foot of the bed, and as the boy looked up at her for explanation she let her face fall upon them and sobbed.
‘If you’re father come back,’ exclaimed Jack indignantly, ‘why do you make mother cry?’
Rodman was still mirthful.
‘I like you, Jack,’ he said. ‘You’ll make a man some day. Do you mind if I smoke a cigar, Clara?’
To his astonishment, he felt a weakness which had to be resisted; tobacco suggested itself as a resource. When he had struck a light, his wife forced back her tears and seated herself with an unforgiving countenance.
Rodman began to chat pleasantly as he smoked.
Decidedly it was a contretemps. It introduced a number of difficulties into his life. If he remained away for a night, he had little doubt that his wife would denounce him; she knew of several little matters which he on the whole preferred to be reticent about. She was not a woman like Alice, to be turned round his finger. It behoved him to be exceedingly cautious.