Sylvester swung a straight-backed chair from its place and sat down near his father.
“Then you are not going to interfere at all? Don't you think that the best thing you can do? Let them work out their own salvation or damnation, as the case may be.”
“I love Ella as my own daughter, Syl, and I would save her if I could.”
“Then I don't understand,” said Sylvester. “Forgive my being impertinent, Syl, but this is a serious matter. Weren't you fond of Ella yourself, some time ago?”
The eyes of father and son met, and the eyes of each were very keen.
“I would rather not answer the question,” said Sylvester.
“You needn't,” replied Matthew, taking a sip of his whisky and soda.
There was a short silence. Sylvester smoked on, his glance fixed on his father's face, his mind more concerned with the traces of illness and suffering that he read there than with the subject under discussion.
“Syl,” said the old man, at last, looking at his son, “we are neither of us sentimental people.”
“I suppose we're not,” assented Sylvester, with a short laugh.