My uncle, filling his glass, invited me to take wine with him; Oliver was drinking heavily. “A glass of wine, nephew!” cried my uncle, gaily. “A glass of wine with me.”
My grandfather muttered suddenly, “Do you make a play for me, Charles?”
“Make a play, sir!” Charles repeated. “Forgive me. I am dull. I do not understand you.”
“Ay,—do you pretend friendship—affection, for—for your brother’s son, or your brother, sitting over there?”
My uncle, looking at me, cried out in amaze, “My brother, sir! My nephew, surely!”
“Nay! Nay!” the old man insisted, testily. “Your brother!”
“The lad, sir?” Charles faltered.
“The lad! Damn the lad! Are you blind, Charles? Are you blind? Your brother sitting there!” His shaking hand stole out; he pointed not at me, but at the empty chair beside me, “Your brother—Richard!”
And now my uncle’s triumphant look had fled. Now staring fearfully, now in turn shaking, he whispered, “Sir, you’re sick! No one sits there. Pray let me aid you from the table,” and rose and offered his hand.
The old man thrust it from him, and pointed still. “Sick! Are you drunk, Charles, that you do not see? Richard!”