In his query was something of the terror of a frightened child; in his eyes something of the look of a wounded beast.
"You ask me why!"
Lenox senior straightened with a jerk and followed the exclamation with something that had been a laugh until, driven through the rage within him, it became only a rattling rasp in his throat.
"You ask me why!" he repeated. "You ask me why!"
His voice dropped to a thin whisper; then, anger carrying it above its normal tone:
"You stand here in this room, your face like suet from months and years of debauchery, your mind unable to catch my idea because of the poison you have forced on it, because of the stultifying thoughts you have let occupy it, because of the ruthless manner in which you have wasted its powers of preception, of judgment, and ask me why!"
In quick gesture he leveled a vibrating finger at the face of his son and with pauses between the words declared: "You—are—why!"
Danny's elbows bent still more under the weight on them, and his lips worked as he tried to force a dry throat through the motions of swallowing. On his face was reflected just one emotion—surprise. It was not rage, not resentment, not shame, not fear—just surprise.
He was utterly confused by the abruptness of his father's attack; he was unable to plumb the depths of its significance, although an inherent knowledge of the other's moods told him that he faced disaster.
Then the older man was saying: