It was this room, too, that was associated
with so much that was happy in his life--drawn-out hours after supper,
when his father was in genial moods, or when company was there--company
that would never come again--and laughter and gallant talk went round.
There was the fire burning in the new stove--that which had so much
excited him only a year or two ago, for it was then the first that he
had ever seen: there was the table where he had written his little
letter; there was "Christ carrying His Cross."
"So you have sent your friend to insult me; now!"
Robin started. The voice was quiet enough, but full of a suppressed
force.
"I have not, sir. I met Mr. Babington at Froggatt on his way back. He
told me. I am very sorry for it."
"And you talked with him at Padley, too, no doubt?"
"Yes, sir."
His father suddenly wheeled round on him.
"Do you think I have no sense, then? Do you think I do not know what you
and your friends speak of?"
Robin was silent.
He was astonished how little afraid he was. His heart beat loud enough
in his ears; yet he felt none of that helplessness that had fallen on
him before when his father was angry.... Certainly he had added to his
stature in the parlour at Froggatt.
The old man poured out a glass of wine and drank it. His face was
flushed high, and he was using more words than usual.
"Well, sir, there are other affairs we must speak of; and then no more
of them. I wish to know your meaning for the time to come.
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