"I can't. Fleur loves me, and I love her. You want me to trust you; why don't you trust me, Father? We wouldn't want to know anything—we wouldn't let it make any difference. It'll only make us both love you and Mother all the more."
Jolyon put his hand into his breast pocket, but brought it out again empty, and sat, clucking his tongue against his teeth.
"Think what your mother's been to you, Jon! She has nothing but you; I shan't last much longer."
"Why not? It isn't fair to—Why not?"
"Well," said Jolyon, rather coldly, "because the doctors tell me I shan't; that's all."
"Oh! Dad!" cried Jon, and burst into tears.
This downbreak of his son, whom he had not seen cry since he was ten, moved Jolyon terribly. He recognised to the full how fearfully soft the boy's heart was, how much he would suffer in this business, and in life generally. And he reached out his hand helplessly—not wishing, indeed not daring to get up.
"Dear man," he said, "don't—or you'll make me!"
Jon smothered down his paroxysm, and stood with face averted, very still.
'What now?' thought Jolyon; 'what can I say to move him?'