This morning I longed to romp and riot with the children, to shake off
every atom of care, to laugh and roll on the floor with them, to be
happy as I have been happy, but I could not. Held in the grip of a
heartache that permeated every fiber in my body, I slunk sullenly away
to my study after dinner to be alone. But even that I could not have.
Pendleton followed on my heels, lit a cigar and inquired whether he
could have a talk with me. Naturally I could not prevent it. I can
prevent nothing, for I am no longer master in my own house.
"Old man," he began in his suave thick voice, which he means to be
friendly, which to me seems orgulous with triumph. "Seems to me you're
about due for a rest."
"What d'you mean?" I faltered, wincing, though inwardly I knew well
enough what he meant.
"Just what I say," he smiled. "You have worked hard enough--supporting
my family. Time I took the load off your shoulders--that's what I
mean."