IV
The doors of Scaw House clanged behind him and at once he was aware that his father had to be faced. Supper was eaten in silence. Peter watched his father and his grandfather. Here were the three of them alone. What his grandfather was his father would one day be, what his father was, he ... yes, he must escape. He stared at the room's dreary furniture, he listened to the driving rain and he was conscious that, from the other side of the table, his father's eyes were upon him.
“Father,” he said, “I want to go away.” His heart was thumping.
Mr. Westcott got up from his place at the table and stood, with his legs a little apart, looking down at his son.
“Why?”
“I'm doing no good here. That office is no use to me. I shall never be a solicitor. I'm nearly eighteen and I shall never get on here. I remember things... my mother...” his voice choked.
His father smiled. “And where do you want to go?”
“To London.”
“Oh! and what will you do there?”
“I have a friend—he has a bookshop there. He will give me two pounds a week at first so that I should be quite independent—”