Robin was turning to leave the room. Harry suddenly saw him. He had forgotten him; he had thought only of Mary.
"Robin," he whispered, stepping towards him. "Robin—you don't think as they do?"
"I agree with my aunt," he said, and he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Harry's defiance had left him. For a moment the only thing that he saw clearly in a world that had suddenly grown dark and cold was his son. He had forgotten the rest—his sister, Mary, Pendragon—it all seemed to matter nothing.
He had come from New Zealand to love his son—for nothing else.
He had an impulse to run after him, to seize him, and hold him, and force him to come back.
Then he remembered—his pride stung him. He would fight it out to the end; he would, as his father said, "show them a stiff back."
He was very white, and for a moment he had to steady himself by the table. The silver teapot, the ham, the racks of toast were all there—how strange, when the rest of the world had changed; he was quite alone now—he must remember that—he had no son. And he, too, went out, closing the door quietly behind him.