John Smith, his cigar halfway to his lips, paused, bewildered and alarmed. "Isn't she well?" he said, in a low voice to Doctor Lavendar.
"I'm perfectly well. But I'm going to speak. Doctor Lavendar will tell you I have a right to speak! Tell him so, Doctor Lavendar."
"She has the right to speak," the old man said.
"You hear that?" said the mother. "He says I have a right to you!"
"I didn't say that," said Doctor Lavendar.
"Mary," her husband protested, "I will not allow"—but she did not hear him:
"Miss Lydia sha'n't have you any longer. You are mine, Johnny—mine. I want you, and I'm going to have you!"
John Smith's face went white; he put his cigar down on the mantelpiece, went across the long room, closed the door into the hall, then came back and looked at his mother. No one spoke. Doctor Lavendar had bent his head and shut his eyes; he would not watch the three struggling souls before him. Johnny slowly turned his eyes toward Mr. Robertson.
"And you—?"
"Yes," his father said. "John, you'll make the best of us, won't you?"