The Master of Stair rose.
“I do not need you, my lord,” he said, still in that tone of passionate bitterness, “to point out the wretchedness of my home—it is a fact obvious enough, and by God you should not fling it in my face. I cannot remember that you ever, by one word, tried to mend the unhappiness—”
“And I,” returned the Viscount, “cannot remember ever saying I had—it is your life”—he shrugged his shoulders—“I have managed my own—now I only ask to be left in peace. I am not fitted for the part of mentor and never essayed to fill it.”
The Master of Stair laughed.
“Peace!” he echoed with wild eyes on his father. “Did your lordship sow peace that you expect to reap it? Not in me, at least, not in me or mine!”
The Viscount had picked up his book again.
“Where is the third volume of Cicero?” he said. “I could not find it. You have the library of a careless man.”
“The servants are at your lordship’s service,” answered the Master and turned on his heel, chafing.
“You forget,” remarked his father, “it is New Year’s Eve, the season I believe of festivities, good-will and other such antique pleasantries, and I understand the servants are mostly abroad.”
The Master gave a wild look round the gloomy room.