René responded to his mother’s embarrassment, but he could not spare her.
“Is that true. Was my father a bad man?”
“He was a gentleman. The Fourmys are proud, clever people. They think they are always right, and they want everything their own way. That is all very well if you have money. But, without it— But why talk of it? It’s all done.”
“Did you love my father?”
Mrs. Fourmy brought her hands down into her lap and stopped plying her needle.
“What’s come to you, René?”
He longed to tell his mother that he too loved, and could therefore understand, but his question had so disarmed her, her eyes looked so frightened, so expectant of hurt, that he could not continue.
“Oh,” he said, “it’s just queer, coming back. One can feel all sorts of things in the house, and——”
“You are like your father in many ways.” And she resumed her crochet.
That alarmed him. Like his father? He felt indignant and uncomfortably self-conscious. He contrasted his hitherto exemplary and successful career with those mean memories—lying abed, whisky and cigarettes. He began to protest: