EDWARD _has begun to pace the room; indecision growing upon him_. EDWARD. This is a queer thing to have to make up one's mind about, isn't it, father? MR. VOYSEY. [_watching him closely and modulating his voice._] My dear boy, I understand the shock to your feelings that this disclosure must have been. EDWARD. Yes, I thought this morning that next week would see us in the dock together. MR. VOYSEY. And I suppose if I'd broken down and begged your pardon for my folly, you'd have done anything for me, gone to prison smiling, eh? EDWARD. I suppose so. MR. VOYSEY. Yes, it's easy enough to forgive. I'm sorry I can't go in sack cloth and ashes to oblige you. [_Now he begins to rally his son; easy in his strength._] My dear Edward, you've lived a quiet humdrum life up to now, with your books and your philosophy and your agnosticism and your ethics of this and your ethics of that . . dear me, these are the sort of garden oats which young men seem to sow now-a-days! . . and you've never before been brought face to face with any really vital question. Now don't make a fool of yourself just through inexperience. Try and give your mind freely and unprejudicedly to the consideration of this very serious matter. I'm not angry at what you've said to me. I'm quite willing to forget it. And it's for your own sake and not for mine, Edward, that I do beg you to--to--to be a man and try and take a practical common sense view of the position you find yourself in. It's not a pleasant position I know, but it's unavoidable. EDWARD. You should have told me before you took me into partnership. [_Oddly enough it is this last flicker of rebellion which breaks down_ MR. VOYSEY'S _caution. Now he lets fly with a vengeance._]