“No.”
“Frederic does. Beastly habit.”
Mary and Minna cleared away the things from the table and Gertrude disappeared upstairs. Francis sat by the fireplace and said nothing. Mrs. Folyat remained in her chair at the end of the table and said nothing either. Serge blew rings and clouds of smoke into the air and stretched his legs. Outside it had begun to rain, and the water gurgled in the gutters.
“How long have you been here?” asked Serge.
For a long time it seemed that he was to receive no answer, but then Mrs. Folyat in a ventriloquial voice, without the smallest expression in her face and without turning her head said to her husband:
“How many years have we been here, Frank?”
“A good many. Nine, ten—more.”
“It seems more than that.”
Again there was a silence, and Serge glared at the gas-jet until black spots swam in front of his eyes. A gust of indignation swept through him, and he brought his fist down on the table with a bang.
“Look here!” he almost shouted, “this isn’t good enough! Aren’t you glad to see me? I’ve come home to you after nearly twenty years, and here you are as silent and gloom-stricken as though I’d risen and confronted you from the grave. . . . Do you remember how I blubbered when I left you at the rectory gate at St. Withans? A boy’s grief is a little thing, but it’s kept you warm in my thoughts all these years. . . .”