The son, like the father, was in immaculate evening dress. There was a very subtle cynicism in the thought of turning aside on such a return as this to dress—to tie a careful white tie and brush imperceptibly ruffled hair.
There was a little pause, and the two tall men stood, half-bowing with a marvellous similarity of attitude, gazing steadily into each other's eyes. And one cannot help wondering whether it was a mere accident that Jack Meredith stood motionless on the threshold until his father said:
“Come in.”
“Graves,” he continued to the butler, with that pride of keeping up before all the world which was his, “bring up coffee. You will take coffee?” to his son while they shook hands.
“Thanks, yes.”
The butler closed the door behind him. Sir John was holding on to the back of his high chair in rather a constrained way—almost as if he were suffering pain. They looked at each other again, and there was a resemblance in the very manner of raising the eyelid. There was a stronger resemblance in the grim waiting silence which neither of them would break.
At last Jack spoke, approaching the fire and looking into it.
“You must excuse my taking you by surprise at this—unusual hour.” He turned; saw the lamp, the book, and the eyeglasses—more especially the eyeglasses, which seemed to break the train of his thoughts. “I only landed at Liverpool this afternoon,” he went on, with hopeless politeness. “I did not trouble you with a telegram, knowing that you object to them.”
The old man bowed gravely.
“I am always glad to see you,” he said suavely. “Will you not sit down?”