But at that I came near to shaking my head. A Lorrain? Never. More likely of the other race, my mother's. Or more likely still, of none at all. There were too many strains in me; none of them succeeded in getting the upper hand. I was the nameless product of concluding epochs.
Time was getting on. I excused myself from staying late, and no efforts were made to keep me.
"You'll be busy to-morrow?"
"All day long, unfortunately."
"But still I'll try to look in to say good-bye" I added, "but I daren't make any promises."
I had quite made up my mind to do nothing of the sort.
"Come and dine if you can."
I had got as far as the hall. Mélanie turned on the light for us.
I thought, as I buttoned my gloves, how well adapted the situation would have been for the stage. The son leaving for the Front. The great Farewell scene. Even a second-rate actor could have drawn tears from the public in it.... I, as actor and spectator combined, experienced not the faintest trace of emotion. Nor, to a certainty, did my father. So much the better! In that case we were sure to escape being ridiculous. Why did it again occur to me that if it had been Victor...?
"Well, good-bye, Father." I said.