He was very much at home.
He rose, smiling, at sight of the tall figure on the threshold. If he had been drinking he was by no means drunken, and his appearance was that of a very handsome but somewhat dissipated man of fifty, dressed in the height of fashion, his powdered wig a little awry, but his eyes bright and wonderfully amused at the present moment. His manner was perfectly friendly.
"Why, Michael!" he cried. "Demn it all, lad, if the first sight of you doesn't make me feel an old man. Come, you'll shake hands with a prodigal father? You're not your poor mother's son, else."
He held out a welcoming hand as he spoke, but Michael ignored it, dropping into a chair.
In all his visions and pictures of his father's return he had never imagined this.
Stephen Berrington did not appear to take offence at his son's refusal of greeting, but sank back into his chair, refilling his glass with punch.
"Old Bates hasn't forgotten his mixture," he observed drily, "though it's nearly thirty years since I tasted it. Thirty years! Well! you'll have heard the story, Mike, and I suppose have long since written me down as a black-hearted devil who's no fit company for honest men."
He passed his hand wearily over his brow as he spoke.
Michael flushed. Though he had expected his father's return eventually, the shock of this unlooked-for home-coming had thrown him off his balance.
"I was with my mother and grandfather on their death-beds," said he, shortly.