“Blast!... Yes, father, of course I will come. I will come three hours—two hours—after sunset. I thought of your birthday yesterday: you were a good deal in my thoughts.... But to-day! But you know me, father. I am like that. I have always been so. But you do know, father, don’t you, that no one comes before you in my love?”
“You see, my son, I am old. To-day I am seventy-three. And it seems to me that the nearer I get to the grave the more lonely I become. Sometimes I wish that we lived together ... that if we lived together....”
“Oh, but, father—it was you who urged me to strike out for myself ... to do what I could without hindrance—that is how you put it, father: you called yourself a hindrance.”
“Did I?” questioned the old man, dully. “I forget. You may be right.”
“Come and live with me, father,” said Orosdi, impulsively. “You can sell your bit of land....”
“No,” interrupted the old man, proudly, “no, Orosdi. This is just a minute’s weakness: every one has these moments. You must go your way; I, mine.”
He poured out more whisky and drank it.
“And now, Orosdi,” said he, looking at the half-empty bottle, “I think I will go home.”
“And I will accompany you to your door. You must take the whisky with you.”
Orosdi recorked the bottle and put it in his father’s hands.