"Don't talk in that way, Gerald. You must not forget that the man was your father."
"Can I ever forget it?" said Gerald, bitterly. "You were my mother's friend, and I tell you distinctly that my father broke her heart. The bitterest tears that ever I shed, or that I ever can shed in this world, were those with which I mourned her loss."
"You left home soon afterwards, did you not?"
"I was thirteen years old when I ran away to sea. By that time my father's tyranny had become unendurable. One victim had eluded him by dying, but I was still left. On the morning of my birthday I left home to seek my fortune, my sole earthly possessions being four-and-sixpence in money, two ally-taws, an apple, and a thick slice of bread."
"But you saw your father again after that?"
"On two occasions only, and then only at an hotel where we met by appointment. Time had softened my bitterness against him, but not his against me. Had I been a dog at his feet he could hardly have treated me worse. Reconciliation on the terms proposed by him was impossible."
"Were you not with him when he died?"
"No. He died rather suddenly, and I was abroad at the time."
"But at least, he surely did not forget you in his will?"
"He left everything to different charities in the town where he died. There is some talk of erecting a statue to him."