The father wandered about for a while, perhaps with the vague idea of finding a match for his cigar; the son's clear gaze followed his father's restless movements until the clock struck the half hour.
"Father?"
"Yes, dear—yes, old chap?"—with forced carelessness which deceived neither.
"It's half past nine."
"All right, Jim—any time you're ready."
"I hate to go back and leave you all alone here!" broke out the boy impulsively.
It was a moment of painful tension.
Cleland Senior did not reply; and the boy, conscious of the emotion which his voice had betrayed, and suddenly shy about it, turned his head and gazed out into the back yard.
Father and son still wore mourning; the black garments made the boy's hair and skin seem fairer than they really were—as fair as his dead mother's.
When Cleland Senior concluded that he was able to speak in a perfectly casual and steady voice, he said: