The constraint that Laurence had felt from the moment of meeting his long lost parent—for their parting rose up before him, the memory of a blow—had vanished. The old man had brushed it away, as soon as they were alone, by a quiet net statement.
"You mustn't think, Laurence, that I've come back to fasten myself on you. I shall stay here only a day or so. I have my own life, and I don't need anything from you."
"That isn't what I was thinking of—"
"I know, but this is what I want to say, it would be ridiculous for me to act as if I had any claim on you, after everything. I don't feel any, don't expect anything. Naturally you couldn't have any affection for me, I wouldn't have any place here, even if I wanted it. And I don't need any money. I just wanted you to understand it."
"Of course you have a claim—"
"No, no, I gave all that up a long time ago, cut off that sort of thing, by my own will, you know. I wasn't made for family life. Couldn't stand it.... Of course I know you have a grudge against me, and quite right. I didn't do my duty by my family, that's a fact. Should never have had a family."
They were sitting before a fire in the library. The old man had refused the cigar Laurence offered, and was smoking a short black pipe.
"I suppose we all feel that way at times," said Laurence moodily.
"Yes, but most struggle along with it. I did, for a good many years, not very well, though. It was against the grain. I got caught in the wheel of things, it was grinding me to pieces."
"The wheel of things," Laurence repeated absently.