"Good-night, my son."
"Good-night, father."
"Yes—yes—good-night—good-night—to many, many things, my son; old-fashioned things of no value any more—of no use to me, or you, or anybody any more."
He retained his son's hand in his, peering at him, dim-eyed, without his spectacles:
"The old order passes—the old ideas, the old beliefs—and the old people who cherished them—who know no others, needed no others…. Good-night, my son."
But he made no movement to leave, and still held to his son's hand:
"I've tried to live as blamelessly as my father lived, Louis—and as God has given me to see my way through life…. But—the times change so—change so. The times are perplexing; life grows noisier, and stranger and more complex and more violent every day around us—and the old require repose, Louis. Try to understand that."
"Yes, father."
The other looked at him, wearily:
"Your mother seems to think that your happiness in life depends on—what we say to you—this evening. Stephanie seems to believe it, too…. Lily says very little…. And so do I, Louis—very little … only enough to—to wish you—happiness. And so—good-night."