Father and mother, sitting opposite one another, looked at me and then exchanged a glance. I found my book—which a careful hand had put in order upon the table, seized it hastily and turned to go.
“Francis,” said my mother.
I turned to her with an expressionless face, put on to keep back the tears.
“Listen, my child,” she said,—and when she called me “child” I drew myself up—“you must always obey your father.”
Obey! the word was odious to me. “Why, I always listen to him,” I said.
Father fixed me with his piercing eyes that hurt as if I felt the points of their rays. He seemed to hesitate; no doubt he did hesitate between his desire to explain and the sense of its uselessness. Recovering his natural—and by that very fact, authoritative—voice, he simply gave me a proof of confidence.
“We were talking of you just now,” he said.
“Yes, of you,” repeated mother, somewhat anxiously.
Then came a sort of interrogatory:
“What do you think of being when you are grown?” asked father. “You think about it sometimes, don’t you? What sort of life would you prefer? You have your own tastes and preferences. Have you chosen your vocation, like your brothers?”