Harry's defiance had left him. For a moment the only thing that he saw clearly in a world that had suddenly grown dark and cold was his son. He had forgotten the rest--his sister, Mary, Pendragon--it all seemed to matter nothing. He had come from New Zealand to love his son--for nothing else. He had an impulse to run after him, to seize him, and hold him, and force him to come back. Then he remembered--his pride stung him. He would fight it out to the end; he would, as his father said, "show them a stiff back." He was very white, and for a moment he had to steady himself by the table. The silver teapot, the ham, the racks of toast were all there--how strange, when the rest of the world had changed; he was quite alone now--he must remember that--he had no son. And he, too, went out, closing the door quietly behind him. CHAPTER VIII Some letters during this week:-- 23 SOUTHWICK CRESCENT, W., _October_ 10, 1906. My dear Robin--I should have written before, I am ashamed of my omission, but my approaching departure abroad has thrown a great many things on my hands; I have a paper to finish for Clarkson and an essay for the _New Review_, and letter-writing has been at a standstill. It was delightful--that little peep of you that I got--and it only made me regret the more that it is impossible to see much of you nowadays. I cannot help feeling that there is a danger of vegetation if one limits oneself too completely to a provincial life, and, charming though Cornwall is, its very fascination causes one to forget the importance of the outer world. I fancied that I discerned signs that you yourself felt this confinement and wished for something broader. Well, why not have it? I confess that I see no reason. Come up to London for a time--go abroad--your beloved Germany is waiting for you, and a year at one of the Universities would be both amusing and instructive. These are only suggestions; I should hesitate to offer them at all were it not that there has always been such sympathy between us that I know you will not resent them. Of course, the arrival of your father has made considerable difference. I must say, honestly, that I regretted to see that you had not more in common. The fault, I expect, has been on both sides; as I said to you before, it has been hard for him to realise exactly what it is that we consider important. We--quite mistakenly possibly--have come to feel that certain things, art, literature, music, are absolutely essential to us, morally and physically. They are nothing at all to him, and I can quite understand that you have found it difficult--almost impossible--to grasp his standpoint. I must confess that he did not seem to me to attempt to consider yours; but it is easy, and indeed impertinent, to criticise, and I hope that, on the next occasion of your writing, I shall hear that things are going smoothly and that the first inevitable awkwardnesses have worn off.