Charley groaned.
“My dear boy,” said Sir Philip, “what does this mean? Surely my old-womanish babbling has not upset you like this! It was only lightly meant. Or is there something wrong?”
Charley turned his face to his father’s for an instant, but only to avert it again.
“Is it anything to do with money, Charley?” said the old gentleman. “But pooh—nonsense! It isn’t that, I know. Your personal expenses are ridiculously small. Why, I expected that by this time you would have half ruined yourself in jewellery presents. What is it, Charley? Can you not confide in me?”
“No, father,” cried Charley, starting angrily to his feet, and overturning his chair; “I have been showing you for the past month that I cannot. But I can stand this no longer,” he cried, striding up and down the room; “for it is not in my nature to play the hypocrite!”
“Hypocrite, Charley! My dear boy, what is it?”
“What is it!” exclaimed Charley fiercely. “You think that I am going day after day to some assignation with that—that—that—with Laura Bray!”
“Good heavens, Charley! what does this mean?”
“Mean, father! Why, that I am a hypocrite, and deceiving one who has always been generous and kind. It means, too, that my life has been turned to gall and bitterness; for I am going about like some puling boy, seeking in vain for a kind word from the woman who has robbed me of all that seems bright in life.”
“But, Charley, what does this mean? I thought—I felt sure—”