"Ah, that wit!" he laughed. "It has been too long, George, too long since I have tasted of it. It quite reminds me of the old days, George—with the dances, and the races and the ladies. Ah, George, how they would smile on you—and even today, I'll warrant! Ah, if I only had the receipt that keeps you young."
"Indeed? You care to know it?" My father quite suddenly leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. As though the abruptness of the gesture startled him, my uncle drew hastily back. And still my father watched him. Between them was passing something which I did not understand. The silence in the room had become oppressive before my father spoke again.
"Lead a life of disrepute," he said gravely. "I cannot think of a better cosmetic."
"George!" cried my uncle in quick remonstrance. "Remember your son is with you?"
"And seems amply able to look out for himself—surprisingly able, Jason.
Have you not found it so?"
"Thank heaven, yes!" he laughed, and glanced hastily at me again.
My father's coat lapel was bothering him. He straightened it thoughtfully, patted it gently into place, and then said:
"Surely, Jason, you did not come here to discuss the past."
"Perhaps not," Uncle Jason replied with another laugh, which seemed slightly out of tune in the silence that surrounded him, "but how can I not be reminded of it? This room and you—indeed Henry here is all that brings me back. He is like you, George, and yet—" he paused to favor me with another glance—"he has his mother's eyes."
My father flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve.