Mr. Fourmy had already helped himself to whisky. (George always kept a bottle in the house in case he and Elsie should drop in of an evening.) They drew up to the table and went through a mockery of eating. The bread was bitter in René's mouth, and the dainties they had bought were tasteless. Mrs. Fourmy talked in a toneless twittering voice of the music-hall performance, while René stole glances at his father and avoided meeting his eyes. If he met his eyes he felt, in spite of himself, amused, charmed, tickled, somehow pleased, and with that pleasure was mixed a salt savor of pity, so that it was irresistible and led on wonderfully to a sure promise of adventure. René kept muttering to himself: "He's a bad man. A bad Fourmy, and you can't do worse than that." This memory he flung with a look at his mother, only to realize as he looked that she had no thought for him, but, like him, was stealing glances at his father and avoiding meeting the little keen humorous eyes. And his father went on eating hungrily and heartily. Half a loaf of bread he ate, and two-thirds of the ham and all the liver sausage. Then he looked wistfully at the honey-cakes, but desisted, produced a packet of cigarettes, and began to smoke. "That's good," he said. "My first square meal since this morning. That's good, good." He moved from the table into the big red velvet chair by the fire. "Good, very good. And it's a real home-coming. After all, this isn't so very different from the old house." "It's bigger," said René. His father turned and scanned him. "I can hardly realize you yet, young man. Can't allow for your growing up. Can only just trace the face I remember. Your nose has grown." "You used to have a mustache." "Yes. Shaved it off in America. Didn't like Roosevelt." "Have you been to America?" "Been the devil's own dance, up and down America, North and South, Philippines, Malay Settlement--that's Rangoon--China, back to America. Wonderful how you meet Thrigsby folk all over the world. Hundreds of young men everywhere who seem to have been at school with you and George. I've had enough. Want to settle down." "Like George." "Isn't George coming in?" "He's married." "The devil he is! And am I a grandfather? Lord! what a world it is for breeding! Think of me just fifty and a grandfather. What things do happen to a man, to be sure." "If only you wouldn't talk," protested René in a sudden exasperation. "To be sure," returned his father genially. "I'm the prodigal. Must give you time to take me in while we digest the fatted calf." "It's not that!" René was swept by his indignation on to his feet. "It isn't that! Only I never thought of this. You come in, and you sit there in your old chair as though you'd only gone out yesterday. And it's over ten years, and I can hardly remember you, and I know all the time that you're my father, and--and--I don't know you. It's simply beastly. I don't know why it is, but it is." "René! René!" cried his mother.