“Why do you tell me that?” Christian asked, with a subtle withdrawal of himself.
“Because your father suffers. Go to him, and explain yourself and your ways. You are his son; it is your duty.”
Christian shook his head. “No,” he answered. “I cannot.”
“And your mother? Do I have to remind you of her too? I did not think I should have to admonish you in her name. She waits. All her days are one long waiting.”
Once more Christian shook his head. “No,” he said, “I cannot.”
The pastor buried his chin in his hollow hand and looked dully at the floor. He left with divided feelings.
XX
Crammon desired a friend. The one who was lost could never be replaced. The hope of winning him back still smouldered within, but the empty space in his bosom was desolate and chill. To install a lodger there seemed wise and would be stimulating.
Franz Lothar von Westernach had the first claim upon the place. They had agreed by letter to meet at Franz Lothar’s country house in Styria, so at the beginning of spring Crammon left Vienna. At Nürnberg he left in the lurch a certain handsome Miss Herkinson in whose car he had travelled from Spa.
To an acquaintance whom, by a mere chance, he met in the dining-car, he said, “I can no longer bear the noise that young people always make. The subdued and clarified attracts me now. The fifth decade of our lives demands milder ways.”