“Frederic? A good deal. . . . More than I could afford. Your mother’s very fond of Frederic.”
“Shall I tell you what will happen if you don’t take my offer? I shall stay, and go on staying until you suddenly realise that I have been here for years.”
“How do you know that?” asked Francis, a little uneasily.
“The house is like that. I’m rather like that myself—sometimes. I suppose it’s in the blood. We get into false positions—we’re intelligent enough to know that they’re false, but we’re not strong enough to break away. Isn’t it so? It’s called good-nature. Doesn’t everybody call you a good-natured man? They do me. A damned good sort they call me—men I hate too—but it only means that I’m easy and don’t make situations painful by demanding a clear issue.”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”
“Only because we’re both good-natured men and there won’t be any issue at all if I don’t. I’ve come home. I’m interested. Things are going to happen in the house, and I want to be in at the fun. I may be useful.”
“What sort of things?”
“I don’t know. Who does? What matters is that they should happen. . . .”
Francis began to chuckle, and Serge threw back his head and laughed, though there was nothing particular to laugh at, and yet it was very strange to him to be sitting opposite a man and trying to get at him and salute his soul, and that man his father. Their conversation seemed to him like two cogged wheels in a machine missing their clutch and whizzing round separately. They went on talking, but finally admitted the futility of it, exchanged tobacco and sat in silence, enjoying it and each other. Francis found company in his eldest son, and it was very pleasant just to sit and look at him, he was so strong and clean and healthy.
Frederic come in very late and found them sitting there and the room full of smoke. Serge rose and took his thin nervous hand in his great paw and said: