There was furtive humour playing at Gaston’s mouth. The old man’s manner had been so unlike anything he had ever met, save, to an extent, in his father, that it interested him. He replied, with keen distinctness: “You mean, why I have come—home?”
Sir William’s fingers trembled on a paper-knife. “Are you-at home?”
“I have come home to ask for my heritage—with interest compounded, sir.”
Sir William was now very pale. He got to his feet, came to the young man, peered into his face, then drew back to the table and steadied himself against it. Gaston rose also: his instinct of courtesy was acute—absurdly civilised—that is, primitive. He waited. “You are Robert’s son?”
“Robert Belward was my father.”
“Your father is dead?”
“Twelve years ago.”
Sir William sank back in his chair. His thin fingers ran back and forth along his lips. Presently he took out his handkerchief and coughed into it nervously. His lips trembled. With a preoccupied air he arranged a handful of papers on the table.
“Why did you not come before?” he asked at last, in a low, mechanical voice.
“It was better for a man than a boy to come.”