"He wants to stay all day—just as long as he can."
"He'd better pull right out on that ten o'clock train. His being here is sure to give me away sooner or later."
It was hard for the father to say good-by. He had a feeling that it was the last time he should ever see him, and his face was gray with suffering as he faced his son for the last time. Harold became not merely unresponsive, he grew harsher of voice each moment. His father's tremulous and repeated words seemed to him foolish and absurd—and also inconsiderate. After he was gone he burst out in wrath.
"Why can't he act like a man? I don't want anybody to snivel over me. Suppose I am to be shot this fall, what of it?"
This disgust and bitterness prepared him, strange to say, for his call upon Mary. He entered the house, master of himself and the situation. His nerves were like steel, and his stern face did not quiver in its minutest muscle, though she met him in most gracious mood, dressed as for conquest and very beautiful.
"I'm so glad you stayed over," she said. "I have been so eager to hear all about your life out there." She led the way to the little parlor once more and drew a chair near him.
"Well," he began, "it isn't exactly the kind of life your Mr. King leads."
There was a vengeful sneer in his voice which Mary felt as if he had struck her, but she said gently:
"I suppose our life does seem very tame to you now."
"It's sure death. I couldn't stand it for a year; I'd rot."