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Antoine’s Father
7

“I mean a place where—oh, you know. Something must be done.”

“But not that. I won’t go. You can show me something to do, myself, if you like. I want to—to grow up as quick as I can. And when I’m a man I’ll———”

He pulled up with a jerk. George regarded him with serious, troubled eyes.

“Yes, what, old man?”

“I’ll—most likely kill my father.”

What a baby it was, after all! George almost laughed. And yet it was not quite a child’s voice.

“You mustn’t talk like that, Tony.”

“I never shall again.”

“I’m—awfully sorry.”

Tony grunted and threw off the sympathy with a fling of his shoulders. Then he looked up at Derwent with a smile amazingly angelic, coming as it did in that sombre, sullen-browed small face of his.

“It must be about dinner-time,” he suggested. “I’m hungry.”

George was disproportionately relieved. Here was something he felt quite able to deal with. They went into the salle à manger together.

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