Something in the young man’s tone roused René to protest.
“Oh no . . . lots of things one does without . . .” But he swallowed the rest. A sudden flow and ebb of emotion had left him speechless, and he felt utterly foreign to the company and to the charmed atmosphere of the household. Mrs. Smallman talked to him for a little, but he felt that she was speaking through him at her husband, so that he could not keep his face toward her, but was constantly turning toward the Professor as though the reply were to come from him, or would at any rate be worthless without his indorsement. And always the Professor smiled with a vague friendliness that was disconcerting.
After the meal he was taken to the study, a long room with books all round the walls, ponderous books, blue books, year after year of reports of learned institutions; reproductions of Italian pictures; photographs of Mrs. Smallman on the mantelpiece, a photograph of Mrs. Smallman on the desk. René was given a large chair and a small cigar, which he began to smoke before he realized what he was doing. He rarely smoked, did not care for it, and presently he dropped the cigar into the fireplace. The Professor stood looking out of the window. Two of the children were playing under the plum-tree. The feeling of being thrust out assailed René. The Professor turned:
“Well?” he asked. “What’s the trouble?”
“My father——” began René.
“Ah! Well?”
“He deserted my mother a long time ago. He came back. My brother’s married.”
“I see. So you’re the only possible breadwinner. Any work in your father? How old is he?”
“I don’t know how old he is. But work? No.”
“It’s bad luck, but it often happens. I’ve had to keep my father since he was fifty. What about your family? The name’s well known in Thrigsby.”