His father sat silent for a minute, twisting his fingers under the edge of the table and looking on the ground. He darted a shy glance at the young man.
“I would like only one thing,” said he.
“It is yours.”
“I would like you to come.... But perhaps you have already arranged.... If you were to come and sit with me to-night, I should be very happy.”
Orosdi’s jaw sank and his face clouded.
“To-morrow, father,” said he, “of course I will come. But to-night I go to Ajvatli.”
The old man poured out more whisky and drank it greedily. He sighed, and began again to twist his fingers under the edge of the table.
“Not to-night, then,” he murmured, with resignation.
“But why especially to-night?” urged Orosdi.
“Have you forgotten? It is my birthday.”