Gabriel walked the room behind his father’s chair. The summer sunshine smote into the room, and the incense of flowers perfumed the atmosphere.
“Will you tell me,” said the son, “upon what evidence you base your condemnation?”
“I am not here, sir, to argue.”
“Nor to damn me—like a tyrant.”
John Strong flashed round and stared in his son’s face.
“Come,” he said; “have you had to do with this bawdy rustic, or have you not? There lies the pith of the problem.”
Gabriel faced him, his shoulders squared.
“I remember that you are my father,” he said.
“A rare privilege, it seems.”
“The instincts of a gentleman—”