“Get away,” he said, savagely; “get in the house and leave me alone.”
Win turned and entered the house. The foolish smile was still on his lips. Pride kept it there, but at heart he was bitterly wounded.
At the foot of the stairway he met his mother.
“You’d better not go out there,” he said, with a movement of his head in the direction of his father; “it’s as much as your life’s worth. The old man’ll bite your nose off if you do.”
“Is your father cross?” asked Bessie.
“Cross? He oughtn’t to be let loose when he’s like that.”
“Something in the paper must have upset him,” said Bessie. “He was all right this morning before he came down. Something on the stock market’s bothered him.”
“Maybe so,” said his son, with a certain feeling. “But that’s no reason why he should speak to me like a dog. He goes too far when he speaks to me that way. There isn’t a servant in the house would stand it.”
He balanced back and forth on his toes and heels, looking down, his face flushed. It would have been hard to say—such was the characterless insignificance of his appearance—whether he was really hurt, as a man would be in his heart and his pride, or only momentarily stung by a scornful word.
Bessie passed him and went out on the balcony. Her husband was still sitting on the steps, the paper in his hand.