“I have seen enough of filial disobedience,” said Mordaunt, rising as he spoke, “to be doubtful with regard to the result; but we will let that pass. Nay, no thanks, if you please; I am weary, and you know how I detest a scene. Good night!” And striding hastily across the room, he retired.
His grandson, or, as Philip Clifdon had been taught to believe himself, his son, did not follow, but falling back in his chair, and planting his feet upon the broad hearth, abandoned himself to vague and delicious revery.
The constraint which the presence of Mordaunt had imposed, wore off with his disappearance, until Philip, disturbed by the loud voices and ringing laughter of those around, roused himself, and addressed a few words to him who has been announced as the former clown of the little company.
Clifdon had disappeared.
In the course of conversation with this man, young Clifdon, or rather Mordaunt, for he bore the name of his supposed parent, had occasion to draw forth and open his pen-knife. A singular dilation of the eye, a sudden flush upon the countenance of his companion, arrested his attention, but was forgotten, as the ex-clown, recovering his composure, quietly observed,
“That is a curious blade—will you let me examine it?”
Young Mordaunt resigned it carelessly into his hands, remarking, “It is a knife I seldom use, but having lost that I ordinarily carry, I have been obliged to bring it forward.”
“It is an old-fashioned piece of work,” said Garvin, for such was his name, earnestly examining it. “I think I have seen it before.”
“I value it as one that has been in my possession from my childhood,” returned Philip. “It has served me trustily.”
“Here is a broken point,” said Garvin, opening a second blade. “What a pity!”