His father's voice was quietly authoritative and Barry yielded.
“All right, dad. I'll do as you say, and this afternoon—well, we'll see.”
At the noonday meal they were conscious of a mutual restraint. For the first time in their lives they were not opening to each other their innermost souls. The experience was as distressing as it was unusual. The father, as if in dread of silence, was obviously exerting himself to keep a stream of talk flowing. Barry was listening with a face very grave and very unlike the bright and buoyant face he usually carried. They avoided each other's eyes, and paid little heed to their food.
At length Barry pushed back his chair.
“Will you excuse me, dad,” he said. “I think I shall step out a moment into the garden.”
“Do, Barry,” said his father, in obvious relief. “You are fagged out, my boy.”
“Thanks, dad. I am a bit played out.”
“And take it easy this afternoon, Barry. To-night you will tell me about your trip, and—and—we'll have a talk.”
“Good old dad!” said Barry. “You do understand a chap. See you later, then,” he called back as he passed through the door.
His father sat gazing before him for some moments with a deep shadow on his face.