“Judge,” said Austen, as he closed the door behind him, “I don't want to bother you.”
The Honourable Hilary regarded his son for a moment fixedly out of his little eyes.
“Humph” he said.
Austen looked down at his father. The Honourable Hilary's expression was not one which would have aroused, in the ordinary man who beheld him, a feeling of sympathy or compassion: it was the impenetrable look with which he had faced his opponents for many years. But Austen felt compassion.
“Perhaps I'd better come in another time—when you are less busy,” he suggested.
“Who said I was busy?” inquired the Honourable Hilary.
Austen smiled a little sadly. One would have thought, by that smile, that the son was the older and wiser of the two.
“I didn't mean to cast any reflection on your habitual industry, Judge,” he said.
“Humph!” exclaimed Mr. Vane. “I've got more to do than sit in the window and read poetry, if that's what you mean.”
“You never learned how to enjoy life, did you, Judge?” he said. “I don't believe you ever really had a good time. Own up.”