Cyril spoke with the ease and assurance of a favoured son. He was the only one who ever spoke to his father by that familiar title. Mr. Tom did not take his eyes from the fire.
“You have your own allowance, and we have only reached half quarter yet. You must have plenty in hand.”
Cyril coloured and then tried to laugh easily.
“What keeps one at home scarcely goes as far in London.”
“That allowance was fixed when you went to Oxford and has never been changed. Many a man has less on which to bring up a family. It should stand the strain of a few weeks in town.”
Cyril was silent, biting his lips. He was not accustomed to be denied anything.
“Well, I need not go, I suppose,” he said rather sullenly. “I can stay here and take my chance, of course.”
“Yes, and help in the press of work which this outbreak will entail upon us all,” said his father rather sternly. “That is a thing which had never occurred to you, I suppose.”
They were all rather surprised by the tone taken by the father towards Cyril, nobody more so than the young man himself. A thrill of dismay began to run through him. Something must have happened to change his father’s manner so completely.
“Of course if I can be of any use——” he began nervously.