“It means he no longer loves me. You kicked him. You kicked my Mercury who was always so good to me.”
She looked at him wild-eyed, accusingly.
Without a farewell embrace she opened the door and entered the house, leaving him alone.
The old man was lying on his rug when his son entered. He had finished the bottle of whisky and he knew not what his mood was.
“Two hours ago it was my birthday,” he said, aggressively, “my birthday, and you did not come, though you promised.”
He protruded his under-lip and, seizing an empty glass that stood near him where he lay on the floor, he cast it on the tiles where it was smashed to fragments.
Orosdi, weary and a little afraid of what the night had brought him, sat down and sighed.
“Do not be angry with me, father,” he said, gravely.
“You have done three evil things this night,” said the old man.
“One is not always virtuous.... But I will see you in the morning. I must sleep. You also, father. You are overwrought.”