“I don't think Billings will rob his wife again,” remarked Sylvester.
“Well, you can send him up to me in the morning.”
“I think he'd sooner have another kicking,” laughed Sylvester.
A picture rose before him of the reprobate cringing before his father, wriggling at each sentence as at a whip lash, and going away with two more bottles of wine that would burn his dirty hands like hot bricks. He laughed, but Matthew thrust both hands in his pockets and stood with feet apart on the hearth-rug.
“Did you ever hear of such a mean skunk?”
“You will never fathom the depth of human meanness, father, if you live to be a hundred.”
“I thank you for the compliment, Syl,” replied the old man, drily, “but I happen to think otherwise. May you never live to know it as I do.”
“Mr. Usher, sir,” said the servant, suddenly throwing open the door.
Matthew started, and glanced instinctively at his son. Sylvester, who had been struck by an unusual note of emotion in his father's voice, was looking at him curiously. So their eyes met in a mutual sensitive glance, and Matthew flushed slightly beneath his tanned and care-lined skin.
“Confound Usher!” muttered Sylvester, irritably.