In ominous silence the
meal proceeded, and with the same thunderous air, when it was over, his
father said grace and made his way, followed by his son, into the
parlour behind. He made no motion at first to pour out his wine; then he
helped himself twice and left the jug for Robin.
Then suddenly he began without moving his head.
"I wish to know your intentions," he said, with irony so serious that it
seemed gravity. "I cannot flog you or put you to school again, and I
must know how we stand to one another."
Robin was silent. He had looked at his father once or twice, but now sat
downcast and humble in his place. With his left hand he fumbled, out of
sight, Mr. Maine's pair of beads. His father, for his part, sat with his
feet stretched to the fire, his head propped on his hand, not doing
enough courtesy to his son even to look at him.
"Do you hear me, sir?"
"Yes, sir. But I do not know what to say."
"I wish to know your intentions. Do you mean to thwart and disobey me in
all matters, or in only those that have to do with religion?"
"I do not wish to thwart or disobey you, sir, in any matters except
where my conscience is touched." (The substance of this answer had been
previously rehearsed, and the latter part of it even verbally.)
"Be good enough to tell me what you mean by that."
Robin licked his lips carefully and sat up a little in his chair.
"You told me, sir, that it was your intention to leave the Church.
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