The paper shook in the lawyer's hand, but he did not put it aside, nor rise to his feet. An angry frown gathered between his brows, but this smoothed itself away, and left him cold and unmoved.
“Just as you think best, Stephen,” he said, without show of resentment or regret, and dropped his eyes to the paper again.
There was a painful awkward pause, in which Stephen heard the beating of his own heart. His decision and Benson's acceptance of it had been reached with tragic swiftness; and he recognized that the affairs of life are sometimes affairs of seconds only; that one can shatter ruthlessly as well as rear patiently. He paused irresolutely in the doorway.
“Uncle Jake, won't you speak to me—”
“I have nothing to say, Stephen,” said Benson, without lifting his eyes from his paper.
At this, Stephen turned on his heel and left the room. A moment later, and the house door closed, and save for the servants Benson was alone in his house.
He read on imperturbably until the breakfast bell rang, then he got up slowly, and walked slowly into the dining-room.
On the street Stephen paused and took stock of the situation. He had broken with Benson, and where was he to go? There was only his aunt; he would have to go there. He could ask this of her for the time, until he could do something for himself. He was hurt and embittered. It was a terrible blow to him that Benson's affection had died so quick a death. He wished he might have been allowed to say more, to explain fully why his attitude was as it was, and just how impossible it had become for him to break with either his aunt or the Nortons.
It hurt him, too, though he did not own this even to himself, that after all these years he had made himself of so little consequence to Benson. He would have dismissed an incompetent servant with as little show of feeling.
But Benson was not happy. He dispatched his breakfast in haste and hurried down to the office.