He sits
on the settle and tries to read his paper. He breaks down. He is a
pitiful lonely man.
In the silence something happens. A well-remembered voice says,
'Father.' Mr. Don looks into the greyness from which this voice comes,
and he sees his son. We see no one, but we are to understand that, to
Mr. Don, Dick is standing there in his habit as he lived. He goes to his
boy.
'Dick!'
'I have come to sit with you for a bit, father.'
It is the gay, young, careless voice.
'It's you, Dick; it's you!'
'It's me all right, father. I say, don't be startled, or anything of that
kind. We don't like that.'
'My boy!'
Evidently Dick is the taller, for Mr. Don has to look up to him. He puts
his hands on the boy's shoulders.
'How am I looking, father?'
'You haven't altered, Dick.'
'Rather not. It's jolly to see the old studio again!' In a cajoling
voice, 'I say, father, don't fuss. Let us be our ordinary selves, won't
you?'
'I'll try, I'll try. You didn't say you had come to sit with _me_,
Dick? Not with _me_!'
'Rather!'
'But your mother----'
'It's you I want.
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